


The Burning of Carnation Petals

by HOverSeas



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Don't copy to another site, Eventual Johnlock, F/M, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Flowers, Friends to Lovers, Funerals, Happy Ending, John Has Issues, M/M, Mutual Pining, Slow Burn, There were TWO beds, Unaddressed Trauma, Weddings, Yeah you read that right, alternative universe
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-21
Updated: 2021-02-22
Packaged: 2021-03-10 18:00:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 19
Words: 61,066
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28221318
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HOverSeas/pseuds/HOverSeas
Summary: John is a crematorium technician and he has a lot of relationship issues. Sherlock is a florist and mostly has one relationship issue. They are friends, but will have to pose as boyfriends as a way of avoiding the problem they are trying to solve.This is NOT a WIP. Chapters every Monday and Thursday.betaed by: S_IRIS
Relationships: John Watson/Other(s), Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Sherlock Holmes/Victor Trevor
Comments: 121
Kudos: 73





	1. Ranunculus

**Author's Note:**

> Come say hi on my tumblr or twitter, although I'm definitely more active on twitter, where you can also find the updates of my projects, and the links to the songs of each chapter, posted a bit before the chapter per se.
> 
> Updates on Mondays and Thursdays.
> 
> This fic was betaed by the wonderful fabulous and super smart @S_IRIS. She made a spreadsheet and everything, it was amazing. Go read her fics!!!!! Any remaining mistake is mine.
> 
> SONG: Wonder Girls - John Doe
> 
> **WARNING:** This is ranked for Teen and Up Audiences, content warnings for this ranking all apply. However, keep in mind this is an adult story about adults. If this bothers you, ESPECIALLY because you are a minor, I ask you to close the tab.

The master of ceremony, looking sharp in her sober black suit and bluetooth earpiece, shows everyone their assigned positions before the ceremony starts, which should be in about 15 minutes. Ted grins at John, looking disgustingly happy, and John can’t help but smile back. He is introduced to Janine, the chief bridesmaid and Stella's best friend, with whom he will enter the church. Janine doesn't seem much interested in John going by her polite smile that doesn't reach her eyes, but that doesn’t stop his girlfriend from eyeing Janine suspiciously from her seat in the middle aisle.

At least they are allowed a glass of wine while waiting for the bride to arrive. He sips contentedly, eyeing the whole decoration instead of the guests.

'Mary doesn't seem very happy.'

John turns his back to the church entrance where said woman is giving off general hostile vibes in his direction, making a face at Mike Stamford. 'Tell me about it.'

Mike chuckles. 'Trouble in paradise already? At a _wedding_?'

John rolls his eyes, and sighs. 'It was never paradise anyway.' But he doesn't elaborate, not wanting to go into gory details about their relationship right now, so he changes the subject. 'I heard about the Coulson family? What was that?'

'Oh, that one is giving me nightmares! Which is saying something considering how long I've been in the funeral business! So here we have Mrs. Coulson, still recovering from a heart transplant, but her husband!' Mike brandishes his finger to emphasize the turn of events in the story, 'is pretty sure she's going to die. Planned the whole funeral, including ordering a coffin. Their teenage son was with him, confirming the whole story. And then the adult daughter comes in, finds out and goes ballistic. Never seen a fight like that at the house. Made my whole month.'

John tries to hide his giggles. He takes a guess that Mike managed to sweep in more than a glass of wine. Or two, or three.

'Keep your voice down-' he tries to warn him, but Mike is already looking over his shoulder and waving drunkenly at someone.

'Look it's Sherlock! Sherlock, come here!'

John winces at people turning to stare at them with condescension, but Mike doesn't seem to notice, the silly bugger. The man he was calling finally approaches them. He's wearing just a white shirt with rolled up sleeves, no suit jacket, so he must not be a guest for the wedding.

'I knew Irene would hire you for this! She loves putting up an impeccable ceremony so everyone can compliment her at the end. I like what you did to the table mini-vases.'

'Thank you. It's an original idea for this wedding, specifically,' the man glances briefly at John, who is just watching them. Mike slaps his arm a tiny bit harder than required.

'Hey John, this is Sherlock. He works for Mrs. Hudson.'

They shake hands firmly, and John has to look way up to meet his eyes. Almost everyone is taller than himself, but this guy towers over him. 'Nice to meet you. You're a florist, then?'

Sherlock does look at his face for half a second, but his eyes immediately drop to John's chest with a deep frown. 'Obviously. Was it you who put up the _boutonniere_?'

'The what?'

Sherlock huffs and steps into his personal space more than any non-platonic person has the right to. There is a flower thing he was instructed to pin to the lapel of his jacket, and Sherlock is messing with it. John glances at Mike beside him, making what he expects is a questioning face. Even tipsy Mike seems to understand, but just shrugs, not interfering with Sherlock fixing his suit.

Sherlock finally removes the offending piece. 'This is _not_ for you. It's completely out of tone with the colour palette for the best man suit. Come with me to the table. I'll get you a proper one.'

John is still dumbfounded, but follows him, leaving Mike grinning madly to himself. Sherlock checks flower arrangements here and there on the way to the table where John collected his "boutonniere", apparently how the chest piece is called. A good thing about being so tall is being able march through a distracted crowd and they just move out of your way. John can only wish.

'Protan or deutan?'

He blinks at Sherlock, who is selecting another piece for him from the table meticulously. 'Sorry?'

'Your colour blindness, protan or deutan?'

'How do you know I'm colour blind?'

The face he gives John screams, "please, you're an idiot". Instead of giving the new piece to John, he attaches it in place himself, leaving John to stare at his huge but dextrous hands working on his jacket button. Oh boy.

'Ah, well, thanks for that.'

'Not a problem.'

Both hover in place, not knowing what to do next. 'Oh, it's protan by the way.'

Sherlock arches an eyebrow. 'Interesting. Never met one before.'

John smiles. 'Not terribly exciting, I guarantee you.'

'Just like this type of ceremonies.'

John breaks into giggles, trying to pretend it's a cough. 'Definitely,' he says, lowering his voice. Sherlock tips his head slightly in his direction to hear him better. 'But don't let anyone know that. I'm the best man, I guess.'

'You _guess_?' Sherlock asks playfully, and John pretends to take a sip of his now room temperature wine to hide his face. 'I prefer funerals to be honest. You never know when someone is going to have a fit.'

'It's a waiting game,' John nods in agreement. 'Since I directly operate cremations, it's a long process. Most people cry but start getting bored after the first 40 minutes.'

An old couple passes them by, giving a dirty look in their direction. Both men just nod along in acknowledgement, but revert to giggles soon after, causing the master of ceremony to march over to them, looking crossed.

'Mr. Watson! The bride car is already here, go to your place, please,' she delicately shoves him in the forming queue direction, before frowning at Sherlock. 'And what are _you_ still doing here? Is there any problem?'

'No, Irene,' Sherlock says. 'I was just finishing the flower pieces for the best man. I'll leave now. Bye, John.'

John turns over his shoulder to wave a good-bye. Sherlock definitely sounds like a good partner to have in places like this. He will have to ask Mike for his number.

****

'Mrs H! How are you doing?'

Her head pops up from behind a huge bush of snowdrops. John can barely see her, but her kind smile is felt all the way through the plants. 'John! So nice to see you, dear! I'll get there, wait a second.'

It's a whole maneuver for Mrs Hudson to get around the bushes, but when she finally manages he is rewarded with a hug. Despite getting to know her beyond the business collaboration through Sherlock over the last two years, the warmth of her embrace hasn’t faded one bit. 'What brings you here, then?'

He scratches the back of his head, looking around. 'Is it possible to make a small bouquet? Nothing too expensive, I just want to take it to my girlfriend today.'

'Is it a special occasion?'

'Not really. I just thought it would be nice.'

Sarah has been complaining. Again. She told him that while she had always been aware that he won’t be the most emotionally invested in a relationship (and really, what the hell is _that_ supposed to mean?), she had expected at least a honeymoon phase. He's not a lovey-dovey person, he can freely admit, but he's not rude or neglectful. He doesn't leave her on read when she texts (unlike some of his friends), if he's not working he takes her calls, if she asks to meet for dinner, he agrees most of the time. 

He doesn't understand why it's so important to her that he takes initiative when she already does that so well. He had thought that she liked taking charge, since she was the one to ask him out after they first met, when they barely knew one another. 

So today, he is playing the romance card. He will take flowers to his date with her. He's not one of those idiots that think every woman likes the same stuff - especially flowers and chocolate and jewelry, all the stereotypical things tv ads tell you. One of his exes hated flowers. But Sarah Sawyer loves flowers. She _is_ the stereotypical romantic type, he supposes. He is counting on it to win him some points with her today.

Mrs Hudson tuts, tapping a finger against her chin. 'I do have some pretty things I can do for you. How do you feel about pink roses? They are in season and are quite popular for Christmas bouquets.'

He tries not to scrunch his face. 'I have no idea to be honest. Sherlock keeps trying to make me understand flowers but it just goes over my head. Where is he, by the way?'

Sherlock has called him a barbaric ape multiple times, but John doesn't take offense, mostly. Sherlock thinks everyone is an idiot anyway. John doesn't understand the difference between flowers that much, especially since many of them look the same sepia tone to him. 

'Oh, he went to make a “special delivery”. He'll be back soon. How about some white narcissi in the medley, to complement the pink?'

John frowns at the way Mrs Hudson says special delivery, but doesn’t mention it. 'Aaah- I think it works, thanks.'

Since it's practically closing time, John helps her to tidy everything up and close the front door while she prepares his bouquet. He will pay in full, knowing by now there's a good reason flowers are expensive, but he knows she will make the bouquet especially nice since it's for him. She is not as modern and inventive as Sherlock in her designs, but he supposes there is a beauty in classic arrangements.

She uses a silk ribbon to make a complicated bow for him. 'I'm making it very neat here. I hope your girlfriend likes it.'

'Don't be fake-modest, Hudders, it doesn't suit you.'

'Shut up, young thing,' she replies while John turns around to see Sherlock coming over. He goes around the counter to operate the cashier. 'Did Mr Trevor pay by card?'

'Yep. I'll register the receipt now. John, did you pay for that already?'

'No, here, take it.'

He props his elbows on the counter, watching Sherlock process both payments. He is very quick typing into the computer paying system. The cashier machine opens when he presses "enter", and he takes John's change to hand it to him. John promptly puts it in the tip jar beside the cashier.

'You don't have to, you know,' Sherlock says as he shuts the system and closes the cashier.

'I know,' he smiles deliberately, waiting to be recompensed with Sherlock's tiny side-smile. 'Are you doing something today?'

Sherlock shrugs. 'Nothing specific in mind.'

'There you are, a perfectly nice bouquet.' Mrs. Hudson finally presents to him, and puts her hands on her hips. 'But if I may, John Watson, don't think flowers will fix your relationship issues.'

Sherlock snorts and turns his back, pretending to clean something behind the counter. John glares daggers at his retreating back. 'I'm not trying to fix anything, I'm just being nice.'

'Remember Bill Murray?'

Mrs. Hudson asks, 'Bill Murray who?' at the same time John barks, 'Shut up, Sherlock.'

Sherlock turns back again to them. 'A _disaster_ of a relationship John had. Poor Bill. Has it been a year already?'

'Oh my god, leave me alone.'

'He is just a bad boyfriend, Mrs. Hudson, and it's not even a specific issue!'

'Yeah, I'm leaving now, talk to you later, _bye_!'

-*-

Sarah is one of those nice, soft-spoken women that you usually see in rom-com movies. She is probably the pretty high school ex of the protagonist's romantic interest, to show that she has a potential rival approved by the guy's family because of her connection to the hometown and everyone's parents were friends. It should be what people call proper girlfriend material, except that John usually does not care much for that.

For one, in these movies people tend to date envisioning eventual marriage. It's not that John is against marriage or doesn't see himself marrying anyone, but expectations are usually so high and he cannot meet them. He's here today, but what if he's not there tomorrow? What if they make commitments too soon, just to keep changing their mind? Everyone is so kind trying to get to know things from you, and you don't have the proper information.

Sarah is a doctor, so she lives pretty well and doesn't have much time during the day. It works perfectly for him. But despite being soft-spoken, she does not shy away from the things she wants. She had subtly pushed for every milestone in their relationship. He likes, he really does, but at some point it starts freaking him out, even if he knows it's not reasonable to feel this way.

So today, as he takes the Tube to pick her up from the clinic while protecting the bouquet from the rush hour crowd, he will try to make it better. He is sure he is capable of doing this. He will even agree to going for Sunday lunch with her grandparents. Now that is a power move.

He suspects it's not going to work at all by her weak/cold/whatever reaction to the presented flowers.

'Thanks, John.' her mouth does a thing that resembles a smile. Or a muscle spasm. John can’t tell. 'They are very pretty,' she adds as an afterthought.

They go to a small thai restaurant around the corner. John is already dreading that she is making them go through dinner.

'If you know what is happening here why don't you say something?' she eventually asks over her green curry. The flowers are thrown on top of her coat over the chair beside her.

'If you have made a decision just say it, Sarah.' he is already tired. 'What exactly do you want from me?'

'Something, John!' she throws her hands up. 'I have no idea where do you want to go, if any of this is meaningful to you or if you are just passing the time.'

He puts his elbow on the table so he can rest his face on his curved fingers. 'I thought we were doing nice. Isn't this nice?'

'It would be nice if I was 19 and had no plans further than next week. Being on the wrong side of thirty years old, I just want to settle down, for god's sake.'

'Is this a marriage talk? Are you angry because I didn't propose after what, four months of dating?'

'Six.' she corrects drily, going back to eat the curry. 'And no, this isn't about marriage, it's about dedication. At this point I want someone interested in building a relationship, but you are more busy obsessing over your friends-'

'Oh my god, not this again.' he rubs his face all over, resisting the urge to pull his hair out. 'Having close friends is a teenage thing now? I lost the memo.'

She munches her eyebrows at him, pityingly. 'They are not your close friends. And that is not the _point_ , why is it so hard talking to you over anything that requires emotional maturity?'

He cleans his plate and pushes it aside. 'If you are going to just insult me all night we are probably done here. I suppose we are canceling your grandparents on Sunday then?'

'We are cancelling everything.' she is still not over her meal, but asks the passing waiter to bring the menu again. 'I'm going for dessert. Dinner's on me today. You can take your flowers with you. Good-night.'

'Wow.' he just looks around with incredulity, hoping no one is near enough to hear them, and the back of his neck feels hot already from the humiliation. 'I can pay for my own food.'

'I insist.' she says while skimming the menu. She catches a glimpse of his face and sighs. 'Look, it's a shame it happened this way. I really liked you, but it wasn't going to work and you know it. I just would really prefer it if you left right now.'

He nods quickly, pursing his mouth to avoid saying anything. He gathers his coat and the flowers and stands up. 'I'm sorry.' is all he manages to say before leaving. She doesn't look back at him.

His first instinct when he reaches the street is to throw away the flowers, but enough coexistence with Sherlock changes his mind on that. He also doesn't want to go back to his depressing flat yet. So he walks until he finds a bench, which happens to be a bus stop, and sits down already pulling his phone out of the pocket while still carrying the bouquet.

**sent  
can u guys believe sarah broke up w/ me?**

**sent  
anyone free tonight? we could watch a movie or smth**

He checks almost compulsively the status of the text in the messages group. One by one his friends read the message, but nobody replies, which is how it usually goes. The group is barely used anyway. Finally one of them, Gordon, answers.

**received  
sorry, kinda busy tonight**

He then opens their Instagram profiles, to check if they posted any stories regarding where they are. Keith posted a picture with his sister half an hour ago. Earlier today there were two stories from the others that included pictures of beers on the same table. Did they go to a happy hour together? He likes all the posts to show that he saw them, then opens the messages app again.

**sent  
are u at home?**

**received  
Yes. I take it that it did not go well for you. SH**

**sent  
that wasn't even a question**

**received  
Indeed it wasn't. SH**

**You can't come here. But we can meet halfway somewhere. SH**

-*-

There is a Costa between Montague Street and the thai restaurant. John opts for an ice tea, and Sherlock goes for black coffee as usual, even if it's already 20:00. For someone who needs to wake up so early to work, either Sherlock doesn't seem to care about his sleeping habits, or he is immune to normal human necessities.

'My place is a dumpster fire right now.' Sherlock says after they are both sitting down with their beverages. 'Can't stand the place but I can't afford much else.'

John thinks of his own bleak flat, which is a nice word for something barely more than a bedsit. It's not _bad_ per se, but he can barely walk around on his own, nevermind receiving someone else. Bill Murray hadn't seemed to mind, but he remembers the girlfriend that didn't like flowers' face when she first saw it, so he never let Sarah beyond the front of the building.

'I know what you mean. I hate where I live too.'

Sherlock takes a sip of the coffee and grimaces while swallowing. 'Talked to Mike about it a couple weeks ago, during that joint funeral.'

'The old ones? Mr. and Mrs. Pratt?'

He just swishes his hand as if saying "whatever". Like Sherlock is going to remember the names of strangers. 'Anyway, he suggested getting a flatshare. But that's preposterous. Who would want to live with me?'

John studies him and his wrinkled nose as he drinks more coffee. An idea blossoms in his mind. He never considered the possibility. They've known each other for two years already, and Sherlock _is_ his best friend, even if he never said it aloud. They are not the type of people that say these things aloud.

'What?'

John blinks out of his reverie. 'Sorry?'

'You were thinking about something.' he gestures in his direction with the coffee cup. 'Your eyes weren't wandering so it's not a general distraction, and you didn't respond with your typical sarcastic follow-ups so it must be important.'

He crosses his arms over the table and leans forward. 'It occurred to me… What if we lived together?'

Sherlock blinks just once, looking surprised. "Now, that's a first." John thinks.

'You and me? Are you serious?'

'I mean.' he shrugs. 'We already know each other's worst habits. We both hate our current situation but we don't have enough money to change it on our own. And despite our age, we are not getting married anytime soon.' he finishes with a small laugh.

The corner of Sherlock's lips lift up and he looks from side to side before putting down his coffee cup. 'That's true. No hopes of going back to Sarah?'

He leans back again to put his arm on the back of his chair. 'Don't think so. They never do, anyway.' but this is not something he wants to talk about right now, so he changes topics. 'How is your coffee?'

Sherlock rolls his eyes. 'You know it's disgusting.'

'It's a bloody Costa, not Starbucks or something equally "evil".' and he makes the air quotes to emphasise it. 'It can't be that bad.'

'Food is not supposed to be commercialised in chains, John, the taste properties-'

'Heard it all before, Spock.' they get up and Sherlock disposes of the cup at the bin outside. He then remembers he still has the rejected bouquet in hand. 'What do I do with this?'

Sherlock collects it and unmakes the satin bow delicately tied by Mrs. Hudson. There aren't many flowers, and they look a bit beaten up already after being tossed around the whole night. With the care he employs just for his meticulous work, he removes one by one, and offers them to homeless people along the way, along with some coins. John smiles to himself all the time as he watches, feeling his belly get warm.

They walk side by side with no much direction. At the underground station where they need to separate, John asks again. 'So, will you think about it?'

Sherlock turns to him with his hands in his pockets. His collar is turned up, accentuating his cheekbones. He works his mouth a bit. 'It _is_ a sound idea. I think it could work. I'll take a look at some places and we can talk along the way.'

John takes a step back to watch Sherlock leave, coat flapping dramatically as he walks, and congratulates himself for proposing it. It definitely could work.


	2. Snapdragon

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Come say hi on my tumblr or twitter, although I'm definitely more active on twitter, where you can also find the updates of my projects, and the links to the songs of each chapter, posted a bit before the chapter per se.
> 
> Song: Call my name, by Love X Stereo
> 
> This is how I imagine Elyse from this chapter.

Few days later John is working with Mike, his boss and funeral director, on the filing process that needs to be done every end of the year. They need to archive the last blue book, which is how they call the mortuary register where every funeral house permanently records information about the bodies, to make space for the next one. 

Since it coincided with the renewal period of the licenses for the transfer vans, John is helping Mike with the paperwork filing while the boss works on this more administrative detail that has nothing to do with John's work. 

They are working in silence when someone knocks on the office door, opening and entering after hearing Mike's 'Come in!'.

It's a greying man in a classic trench coat, which bears humidity from the December drizzle going on outside. 

'Excuse me, are you Mr. Stamford?'

'Yes. Do you have an appointment or is it an emergency walk-in…?'

'Detective Inspector Lestrade.' the man closes the door behind him while brandishing his Met badge, coming to stand in front of the desk with his hand offered. 'One of your employees called the police about a suspicious body?'

'Oh god, yes, right.' Mike stands to shake his hand. 'Please have a seat. Sorry John, Can you continue this later? Put the binder back in the bookshelf, please. Thank you.'

John complies. 'Not a problem. I'll just leave you two then.'

'Thanks. And would you mind going downstairs to tell Molly the officer arrived?' he acknowledges DI Lestrade, who has already taken place at the clients chair. 'The mortuary is located in the basement. I assume you will want to talk to the embalmer now before taking a look yourself?'

Lestrade props his elbows on the armrests to steeple his fingers. 'Yeah, that would be helpful.'

'Right. I'll send her up.' John nods and leaves the room.

The mortuary is surprisingly not the most depressive part of a funeral house. People upstairs bawling their eyes off while choosing the perfect colour of the coffin and clothes for the deceased and flowers for the memorial are way more disturbing than the actual bodies, in John's opinion. Molly Hooper, who does the embalming on most of them, shares this perspective.

'So, who did you kill?' he says as a greeting, interrupting her right in the middle of stuffing the body's throat with cotton wadding, done to prevent leakage. The head is already propped on the head block for the same reason. The mortuary whiteboard at the wall beside the door says the deceased was called Geoff Power, died yesterday at a hospital, body had fluids coming out, but not infectious. 'The police are up there looking for you.'

'Oh! That will be the Gaskell case!'

There were some rumours going around the house about the Gaskell case, but nothing conclusive had reached John. Elita Gaskell, 38, arrived two days ago, in a seemingly simple enough case of heart attack.

'Care to tell me what happened?'

'I found some signs of violence on the body.' she wraps up the current one, the man having being possibly in his sixties, with severe circulation problems going by the dark shade of his legs. His yellow nails are common enough for John to recognise that the dude was a heavy smoker. Molly compresses her lips. 'Sexual violence. And suffocation. But on her death certificate it said she had a cardiac arrest not diagnosed in time. So, I called the police.'

He wants to say it's more excitement he's seen the whole year, and it must be an interesting process to be part of, but the sensible part of his brain filters this to 'Must be awful. Do you think she was murdered?'

She rolls the metal tray with the body back in the fridge and goes wash her hands while he watches, resting against the wall with arms crossed over his chest. 'I believe the police want to check the evidence before properly activating an investigation. I suppose they will want to see the body for themselves. The problem will be the family. She was with her husband when she died, and he was drunk when he called the ambulance, so...'

'Ah, I see.' he frowns at the ground. 'That _will_ be a mess.' 

She finishes cleaning herself and they ascend the stairs together, parting when she reaches the door to the main office. 'Wish me luck!'

He waves at her, before going back to his own work space.

-*-

'How do you feel about Central London?'

John looks up from his phone. He is finished for the day and has been trying to see what his group is up to, since it's Friday night and almost Christmas by now. Sherlock has just stridden into the funeral house with his trademarked tornado attitude.

'I feel like I'm paying two months of salary in bills just from hearing about it. Why?'

'Mrs. Hudson.' Sherlock picks John's coat from the rack beside the front door and shoves it onto his shoulders. John knows better than to fight it. 'She lives on Baker Street, right near Marylebone. She rents the flat above hers, and it's lying vacant.'

'Did you hear what I said?' John pockets his phone to properly pull his arm inside the sleeve of the coat. 'There's no way we'd be able to pay for a location like that, even together.'

'She offered a lower price! I calculated everything, I'm sure we will be able to afford it.' and now he is almost bouncing on his feet, which is an endearing look. 'It's closer to _both_ our jobs so we will save on commuting. Sharing the bills will make them less significant on our finances even if the bills are for two people. And the discount is quite generous.'

John studies Sherlock’s face. He seems expectant. 'Well, you can fill me in on the prices then, but we need to see the flat first.'

'Excellent! Let's go!'

'What? Right now?'

'Do you have anything better to do?'

He thinks about the silent phone in his pocket. 'No, I suppose not. But I'm knackered, can't we do this tomorrow morning?'

'Oh, I have something to do in the morning.' he says nonchalantly. 'If we go now we can also do something else after, if you want.'

He ends up convincing John. They decide to walk there, since it's a pleasant evening and they have to give some time for Mrs. Hudson to arrive from work. John takes note of the Regent's park right at the corner, which is very nice, and a Tesco and Sainsbury's nearby, which is extremely convenient. For him, at least. He's not sure Sherlock ever set foot on a Tesco. 

Mrs. Hudson receives them warmly, and shows them upstairs. The previous tenants were in the country for a fixed period, which is why it's empty now. The living room is ample, and the kitchen well-equipped. The bedroom has a glass door connecting to the bathroom, which freaks him out a bit, but Sherlock seems to take notice and informs him of the second bedroom upstairs which he can take.

They all go down to Mrs. Hudson's kitchen while she makes tea. John sits politely while Sherlock ravages her cupboard for biscuits. He gets playfully slapped for his mess. She informs them of the price and items in the contract over tea. It does seem a generous offer. She is making a compelling case, Sherlock is being insistent and John is tempted enough. They leave looking for a chinese takeaway place with a contract signed.

-*-

A month later, John manages to get a date from a Tinder match. Elyse is a commercial manager, and clearly used to bossing people around. She invites him in on the first date. The one thing she seems to be sensitive about is her nose. There is a few years old picture in her apartment where she still has her original nose. She states that it's not up for discussion in a tone that doesn't invite questions.

After they go out four or five times, John finally decides to bring her round home. She will arrive today from a week-long business trip and she had told him on the phone she was too exhausted to go out after coming all the way from London Stansted. When he comes from work Sherlock has already arrived, sitting at the desk with his computer, doing research probably.

John moves immediately to sit in front of him, and takes the laptop from the way. Sherlock stays with his hands hovering on the air, looking at the now empty spot.

' _Please_ don't comment on her nose job.'

A petulant raised eyebrow is the only response John gets.

'I'm serious, Sherlock. It's the only thing.'

Sherlock turns his head slightly to the side, as if processing the information, and speaks slowly. 'You've been calling her "the one with the nose" for weeks-'

He catches hold of Sherlock's still mid-air hands in his own. 'I know what I said. Just... Just that, ok?'

'I don't even know her name.'

'Elyse.'

'Oookay. Do you want me to leave or…?'

'No, it's fine.'

It turns out that Elyse and Sherlock get on really well. She is a no-nonsense person, a trait that attracted John to her to begin with, which makes both Sherlock and Elyse alike. The company she works for sells paint, meaning she knows her way around the infinite shades of colours. Together her and Sherlock build an arsenal of jokes regarding John's colour blindness.

It's so satisfying watching them have fun that he doesn't even mind. 

The one thing they disagree with is eating habits, as Elyse is a great fan of fast food, which Sherlock abhors.

Some weeks later finds them just chilling at 221B, as she came to visit late after work. John is considering which movie they are going to watch when Elyse walks up to Sherlock.

'You use tailored trousers, don't you?'

Sherlock looks down on himself briefly. John knows that he secretly enjoys when people notice, why would he bother anyway? Sherlock is very careful on how he looks, and he always says that readymade clothes will never fit you perfectly. John is mostly fine with buying stuff from chain department stores, if they are comfortable enough.

With habits like these, no wonder Sherlock needs a flatmate.

He nods at her question and she proceeds. 'I need tailored trousers. I have a nikah to go and they require that we cover our legs completely. Dresses unfortunately mean chaffing on my thighs.'

John frowns. 'Can't you buy at the shopping centre or something?'

Both girlfriend and best friend look at him like he's an idiot, so John decides to detract from the topic from now on. She goes on. 'The larger trousers at the women's section are too small for me, and while usually I can find my size at the men's section, the cuts available are so unflattering.'

'I can give you the number of mine.' Sherlock starts digging at the trash on his side of the desk, managing to fish out a business card that he presents to her. 'He's very good with proportions. You don't want the clothes baggy at the legs just to fit the hips. If you want a suggestion...'

John picks up a magazine lying about and tunes out the discussion, as it's his habit by now.

-*-

Knowing Sherlock for over 2 years now, John would hardly think they would be ideal flatmates. They have completely different eating and sleeping habits, opposite senses of how to deal with shared space, and what constitutes adequate mementos to keep at home. John also keeps the revolving door of dates running, although that's an expression Sherlock had settled and he does not agree with, while Sherlock is usually averse to strangers.

And yet, here they are, around five months in flatsharing, and it's going pretty well in John's opinion. They spend a lot of time together, considering Sherlock is the one friend of his that doesn't mind a bit of clinginess. Sometimes they even end up working together, if Sherlock's services are hired for a cremation funeral. Mike always makes the effort to include it in the package.

Sherlock is a very creative person. He's always sketching new designs for floral arrangements. He started an idea for hair floral arrangement and managed to convince Mrs. Hudson to wear it while working. While making a strange reaction at first, one client took a look at it and decided to use it on herself. It sort of became a trend. It has become somewhat popular for open casket services, which are usually more expensive than common funerals, making the business of both the flower shop and the funeral house benefit from it. It's all a morbid business anyway so they don't even blink anymore to the inappropriate jokes they make around it.

While John would never dare say that Sherlock is a predictable person, John has come to expect some kind of behaviour now that they know each other better than ever. And Sherlock leaving at random times of the week and being secretive of his phone is not it.

It's a bit paradoxical, but for someone so private about his personal life, Sherlock does tend to leave his phone around and generally not mind that John goes through it. Heck, sometimes he even encourages John to use it, being lazy enough to not check his notifications.

So when Sherlock develops a habit of lunging towards his phone as soon as it beeps, John starts to grow suspicious.

If he would sometimes give his trademark tiny crooked smile while reading whatever text he received, John gets increasingly restless. 

And at times when John invites Sherlock to do something together and he refuses on allegation of having plans to do something else, John is pretty sure he's being kept in the dark.

It takes a month of observing this from afar before the whole secret snaps out. Sherlock takes a shower and puts some good clothes on. He chooses the dark blue shirt that he claims it's aubergine, which John approves because it does wonders on his physique, and even a suit jacket! His hair has been tamed into soft looking curls, and John can detect the soft aroma of the cologne when he steps out. 

John rests both arms over the back of the sofa, watching the telly without really seeing what's happening. Sherlock pats his coat to make sure his wallet and keys are in there.

'So.' John starts, trying for nonchalance. 'Going on a date?'

Sherlock puts his coat on. It's the single most expensive piece of clothing he has, and John knows the care he puts into it. He can hear him clearing his throat. 'How do you know it's a date?'

John side-eyes him and gestures at his general ensemble. 'On a Saturday night? I know you think I am an idiot but give me some credit.'

He puts his hands in his coat pockets, working on his mouth and looking a bit uncomfortable. 'Ah, yes. Well, I suppose he's my boyfriend by now.'

John finally turns fully to him, eyebrows raised. 'Really?' Sherlock looks away, and John swallows before standing up. 'Sorry. You don't need to be embarrassed, you know? I'm just surprised since you… never said anything.'

Sherlock shrugs, a few red splashes appearing randomly at his face and neck. John clenches and releases his fists, trying to think what to say. 'What's his name, then?'

'Victor.' Sherlock finally meets his eyes. 'Victor Trevor.'

John nods. There are many questions he wants to ask, but he's not sure he wants to know the answers to those questions. 'I hope it works, then.' he opts for the traditional congratulatory approach. 'Between you two.'

Sherlock looks down and up again at him. 'Thank you, John. I'll be going now. Good night.'

'Have fun,' he plasters a smile on his face and Sherlock leaves, closing the door quietly behind him.

John _almost_ sounds sincere.

-*-

John is checking paperwork at the office archives. The Sanders family want the ashes from the kid distributed in token necklaces, but they failed to ask authorization from the mother of the kid. He has a gut feeling the grandmother and father didn't really forget, but are trying to bypass her wishes against the procedure. He will gather the proper documentation and inform them of the rules. If there's something he doesn't need in his life, it's a sueing on his behalf.

He is looking for the registry archives of Nicholas Sanders’ cremation when Lestrade, Mike and Molly come into Mike’s office. He smiles politely at them. 'Hello, again! Hope there isn't another murder?'

'Same one, lucky you.' Lestrade answers pleasantly. 'And you can call me Greg, since the case is closed.'

'Nice. Well, not the murder of course. Any luck with that?'

Greg waves the file in his hand before putting it in his inside coat pocket. 'Evidence showed us the right person. It was a simple enough case when you know what to look for. Molly here was giving me her statement.'

She waves as if to call attention for herself. Mike moves around them to sit at his desk, leaving them to chatter. 'I was glad to help. Anytime! I mean! Oh god, I don't want any more murders but I do well with corpses-'

'Not that this sounds any better, Molly.' John chuckles, trying to impede the woman from digging a bigger hole for herself. 'But I'm sure he got the spirit.'

Greg nods in acquiescence.

She blushes a bit, hovering from side to side. John bites his lip from inside his mouth to avoid giving away any expression, then turns to Greg in a whim of inspiration. 'It's her birthday next Tuesday, Detective Inspector. We are going to the pub after work with some other friends, why don't you pop by?'

Molly gapes at him, who raises his eyebrows only once to signal her to just go with it. 

Greg appears to be considering for a moment. 'Ah, well, sure, I suppose.' he says, still a bit hesitant. 'But won't the others be bothered by a stranger…?'

John gives him a brief shoulder slap. 'You're a cool guy, I'm sure everyone will be delighted. It's a small group anyway, you will fit right in.' he glances at Molly, who seems very expectant now. 'And you two can tell everything about the case, we are friends of death anyway.'

Mike guffaws from behind his desk computer, and Molly giggles behind her fist. 'If you say so.' Greg adds, not quite smiling but almost there. 

'The Victoria near here, at seven-thirty, does it work for you?' 

'Yes, it does. Well, I have to go now, but see you there then!'

The three of them watch him leave, and Molly is on him the second the door closes. 'Oh my god, I can't believe you did that! He will think I'm an idiot or something.'

'Relax.' he goes back to the archives. 'You miss a hundred percent of the shots you don't take. The worst thing he can say is no. And it's not a date yet, everyone will be there, if he's interested he will ask for your number and I'm sure you'll do fine after that.'

She crosses her arms over her chest. 'Right, thanks, but _don't_ pull this again on me. I can deal with dates myself.'

'I have to confess I am a bit impressed how you just go for it.' Mike says without looking, typing something away. 'I was half expecting you to ask him on a date with yourself. But it makes sense since you have a natural talent to arrange dates. It's the keeping them running that troubles you.'

He's probably making allusion to his last endeavor, Elyse. It lasted even less than Sarah, as she had broken up with him at the start of the spring. Her mother was diagnosed with Alzheimer, and she needed to take care of her. 

Elyse had told John he was a nice enough guy, but she would never expect him to commit to them both in a situation like this, so she broke up with him.

Even if she had presented the facts while being polite and collected, he couldn't help feeling offended by her implication.

'Yeah, fuck off. It's not like I _want_ to break up everytime.'

'You could try that with Sherlock.' Molly points out with a smirk, already walking back to the morgue downstairs. 'He’s a nice guy, could do with a date.'

The document he needs finally appears, and he removes it from the thick file. 'He doesn't need my help.' he frowns at the death certificate of the kid. Cause of death was bone cancer. 'He even got himself a boyfriend last I heard.'

There is silence after that, which makes him look up from the files. Mike and Molly are both watching him intently. 'What?'

Mike looks at Molly now, who cleans her throat. 'He's got a boyfriend? You didn't say anything.'

He narrows his eyes at them, trying to fish what's on their minds. 'Why should I say anything about his life? Did _he_ tell you anything?'

She shrugs. 'Didn't have the opportunity to talk to him recently. You know how he is. Well!' she all but runs to the door that takes her to the morgue. 'Good for him. I have work to do, bye!'

He is terribly confused. 'What was that?'

'Don't know what you're talking about.' Mike answers, attention already back on his computer.


	3. Valerian

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Come say hi on my tumblr or twitter, although I'm more active on twitter. I talk about my projects and also post links to the songs for each chapter a bit before publishing it.
> 
> This is how I imagine Shalom!
> 
> Song: Eyedi - &New

Shalom is a bit younger than John normally goes for, face full of spots and freckles, accompanied by a beautiful smile that is representative of her general eagerness for life. She still carries that unfortunate annoying bit of youth that he has no patience for these days, and to be very honest, it's mostly the great sex that makes him overlook it. 

One thing she appreciates doing is socialising.

John is not a fully social person. He is attached to his friends because he knows he would be rubbish in making new friends. He's not at a Sherlockian level in this aspect, but still.

She wants to meet his infamous high school friends. After a few tries, they finally do agree on a date to meet for a pint. Keith is also bringing his new girlfriend, so at least he doesn't feel like being put on the spot.

After the mandatory sharing school fantastic tales with the new people, everyone engages in smaller conversations and John doesn't seem to fit in any of them. Shalom seems to navigate through the subjects quite easily, but then the guys are not trying to exclude her - and it's not like she's the type of person who would allow themselves to be outcast in a get-together.

He knows, unconsciously, that they are _not_ trying to exclude _him_. Nevertheless, he can't contribute much, so he ends up silently listening to their chatter.

The highlight of this feeling happens when Keith is telling Shalom about meeting Jiana during his crossfit training sessions.

'I _knew_ it was going to happen when you made us go to that beer festival just because she mentioned she would be there.' Andy butts in, making the others laugh. 'He hates what he calls "pedantic beer".' he adds for Shalom's benefit, who then nods with a _Oh!_ and joins the laughter.

John is more caught up in another detail. 'So you all went to this festival?' he asks gingerly, plastering a deliberate smile behind his own pint.

'I think Jamal didn't.' Mathieu frowns, trying to remember. 'Had to stay with the kids or something.'

He nods. 'Cool.' The conversation moves on to the pros and cons of crossfit training, while John tries to remember if he was ever invited to the festival thing.

-*-

In an unusual occurrence, the cremation ceremony has a father. Priests are more common in burials or the funeral services before disposing the body off. Some people don't like to phrase it that way, but John can't really think of another practical way of saying it. Not in front of the clients-slash-mourners, of course.

But this one has a priest, a Catholic one for the matter, and he looks quite young. Father Theo sounds like your typical enthusiastic professional in his early twenties, full of bright new ideas and eager to show the world how hard he works. 

This usually means not enough time in the business to filter which of the ideas are actually good.

So here they are, listening to his kind words about the late Joseph Sutherland, dearest father, husband, brother. The family is big, but they don't seem to get along very well, as there are lots of small groups only talking between each other. Right beside John the youngest son doesn't stop crying. He is still an acneic teen, while his brothers and sister all entered mid-life already. 

'Th-they had me really late.' he says out of nowhere, and it takes John a moment to realise the son is talking to him. 'M-my siblings were all about to l-leave for c-college already. And… and my mum died from breast cancer when I was th-thirteen' he hiccups with a sob. John flexes his hands before giving a pat on his shoulder. Being a technician, John is not used to consoling those left behind. He is more of a behind-the-scenes guy.

'My condolences.'

'I b-barely had any time with them like my siblings. And now… now I have t-to live with them and my cousins, because I'm still a minor. I don't want that.'

John is at a loss of what to do. This is so out of his realm, as he barely remembers his own parents. He was still a kid when the social assistance took him out of the house and his parents became just an abstract concept by now, jeopardising any kind of empathising he could have towards the teen. He is relieved to see that Father Theo seems about to start the sermon.

'Are your…’ the boy begins again, trying to get a grip on himself, ‘are your parents still alive?'

John moves a bit to the side to stand in parade's rest. 'I honestly have no idea.'

'We come together in this crematorium today, and the first thing I hope you came to do is that you came to praise the Lord...'

The cremation is already on the works. Unlike a burial, it can't wait for the father's words, as it takes a lot longer.

'Some folks tell me, “I’m in such a mess I don’t know how to get out of it.” OK, but go to the Lord and talk to him about it and say, “Help me Lord!” But _please_ , do not go on calling “good,” or “no big deal” what God calls sin! The Lord says, _No one who calls on me will I ever reject._ (Jn 6:37)'

John tries not to fidget, looking around to distance himself from all the emotion. He pulls a package of tissues and offers to the now orphan son, who blows his nose as inconspicuous as he can.

'So, before we offer our last thoughts to Joseph, I suggest we all hold our hands.'

Everyone snaps out their reverie, looking uncertainly at each other. Father Theo smiles encouragingly at them, expecting the mourners not only to hold each others’ hands, but with strangers too, John included.

John tries to catch the attention of the priest, who nods at him enthusiastically, inappropriately overjoyed with being the tool for God’s work. Caught by surprise, not knowing the script for the situation, John holds the hand of the boy beside him. But nobody else follows suit. The family just keeps frowning at the other people in the room while Father Theo babbles about the importance of collectivity in grief. John feels awkward and out of place, sticking like a sore thumb in the middle of the service while holding hands with a weepy teen.

Father Theo gestures for holy water and a crucifix. In a whim of quick thinking, John turns to the boy and tells him to go hold them. He goes confidently and John can finally slip out through the side to check on the retort.

-*-

Shalom is not a very imaginative person in terms of dating, which suits John just fine, because he has no idea how to go about planning perfect dates and cool places to hang about. They watch movies together and don't think much about them later. She is vegetarian, and him being a pescetarian makes it easier for them to order food together. She has a medium size rescued dog named Frodo, and John doesn't mind dogs. They get on just fine. Just fine.

However, unlike Elyse, Shalom is not much of a Sherlock fan, so she doesn't come up to his flat if Sherlock happens to be at home. If he is, she tries to convince John to spend time upstairs in his bedroom, which is very annoying since, for the first time in years, he has a perfectly pleasant living room to entertain himself in. On a couple occasions, she had been so insistent that even Sherlock took a hint and retreated to his bedroom, making John's mood sour for the rest of the time she was there.

Sometimes they have to walk Frodo together in the park, especially during the weekends, when they meet during the day when the weather is nice enough. Frodo had been abused before and, because of his trauma, he responds erratically to noises and strangers, and needs to be on a leash all the time. That means John and Shalom can't really sit down on the grass with Frodo and just enjoy the day.

He thinks his relationship is nice enough. Sherlock calls it lukewarm and his dreams material, to which John had responded by throwing a pillow at his head. 

So the fight comes as a surprise because it feels like such a stupid thing to fight over. She had told him she had something fun in mind. He doesn't pay much attention to the details, so when he finds himself in front of the London Aquarium, he nopes right out.

'Look, I'm not going in.'

'John, there's literally no risk of a drowning accident whatsoever in there. It's plexiglass!'

He looks from side to side, hoping people aren’t paying him mind. 'It's not about that, Jesus! Can we leave?'

She crosses her arms over her chest, tightening her jaw. 'We came all the way here already. Can you at least try? I bet it's going to be fun.'

'There is water everywhere,' he looks up at the sky. 'All around me. I don't like it.'

'We went swimming in the club that time, you didn't seem afraid.'

'I can get out of a pool anytime, I _cannot_ if I am surrounded by it.'

'But the water is contained,' she says patronisingly and he despises her tone. 'Think of it as if you are in a safe submarine.'

'Ha! Right, I would never touch a submarine with a two-metre pole, safe or not.'

She pinches the bridge of her nose while closing her eyes for a long minute. He looks everywhere but her face. It’s not something he wants to look at right now.

'This is very annoying, you know.'

He pulls his phone out of his pocket, opens random apps just to have something to do with his hands. 'You can go inside if you want to. I'm out.'

She throws her hands up in defeat, snarling. 'Fine, then.'

She enters the building and he turns to leave without looking back.

They do apologise to each other later that day and engage in a bit of sexting, saving John of having to explain to Sherlock that his quickest relationship to date ended because of his weird phobia. John bets he would find it hilarious.

-*-

'Hey guys, this is Greg! Molly helped him in that homicide case he just solved, from the Gaskell case?'

Everyone compliments him after Mike and Molly, who had stood up in greeting. It's a small get-together, being present Seymour and Pablo from transfer driving, and Frances the undertaker, their co-workers, Sherlock and Mrs. Hudson from the flower shop, and Molly's flatmate, Shadi.

John notices the exception is Sherlock, who seems very stiff out of a sudden, but John dismisses it as Sherlock normally is not very receptive to strangers. Mrs. Hudson leans in to whisper something to him, so John leaves them be.

Greg stops dead for a second when he gives the table a once-over. John motions for him to take a seat beside Molly, guessing that perhaps he doesn't know where he should be. John himself makes sure to sit towards the small telly of the pub, where the rugby match is on.

The two main protagonists of the domestic homicide case take turns in telling the story, although Greg can't give many details due to confidentiality. The audience makes the appropriate reaction sounds.

John notices, in between taking looks at the telly, that Greg and Sherlock don't really interact, talking around each other the whole time, avoiding eye contact. 

The expectation had been of Molly and Greg hitting off, but it doesn't seem likely to happen, as she engages in a conversation with Mrs. Hudson and Shadi after the Gaskell homicide tale is told, before John can instigate more personal subjects for them as he had planned. Seymour and Pablo take over, as they apparently find it really cool to be able to talk to a police officer, sharing stories of their own.

'And that one time we went to a home funeral, and a neighbour called the police on us, saying we were transporting a body into a car. They failed to mention the car was a hearse and the body was in a coffin.' 

Greg huffs, jerking his head. 'Wasting everyone's time, and resources!' he presses his lips, looking at Molly now. 'Well, happy birthday, Molly. It was nice to meet you. But I need to go now.'

John frowns, turning to him. 'You've barely been an hour here!'

'Yeah, well, I have some stuff to do.' he says while getting up.

The guys also insist a bit, but it's very clear that Greg is not interested in being convinced to stay longer, so they let him go.

'Sherlock, let's ask for liquor.' Molly blurts out, after Greg departs. 'They have this passion fruit one here, it's very good.

'Hm.' he grunts noncommittally. 'Let's take a look at that.'

They stand together to go order it, and John decides to join them, asking if anyone else wanted some drink.

As they wait, he peeks the telly behind the bar, which is broadcasting the same match. Molly rests against the counter to face Sherlock fully.

'What was that about?'

John turns from the telly to the duo sharply. Sherlock gives her a sidelong glance. 'What was what about?' he inquires, sounding defensive already.

'You and Greg being all weird around each other. That.'

John frowns at Sherlock. Molly is looking intently at him, who finally sighs, turning his head. 'He's my ex. Nothing much to talk about.'

John feels like he was punched by an invisible man. That’s the last thing he had been expecting. 'I… what? How didn't I know that?'

'Why should you know?'

'We've known each other for over two years!'

'Yes, and I had a life before that.'

'Was it a bad breakup, Sherlock?' Molly asks softly, trying to defuse the tension.

Sherlock shrugs. 'Not exactly. Just… disappointing. I wasn't expecting it.'

'Wait,’ John lets out an incredulous laugh, ‘ _he_ broke up with you?' Because why on earth would anyone ever break up with Sherlock? How could anyone ever do that, beyond the obvious answers of “he’s bloody annoying” and “it’s like dealing with a child”, which don't warrant a break-up in John's opinion.

'Most people wouldn't sound so surprised by that.' Sherlock raises an eyebrow at him. 'Well… there's an age gap between us and apparently it bothered him more than he let on. When he was promoted to Sergeant… he decided it couldn't work. So here we are.'

'How long were you two together?'

'Almost three years I think.' he answers, unaware that he has just turned John's world upside down. 

-*-

They go back home together, walking slowly because John is still a bit tipsy. May has brought the type of pre-summer warmth that is more enjoyable outside one's house. After one too many stumbles, Sherlock suggests they go for chips. Apparently he knows a place that stays open till 2 am.

They sit down at a park, mindful of leaving before the gates close at midnight, each eating their chips. John tries to keep focused, but stealing glances at Sherlock all the time, until he finally snaps. 'What was it that shocked you so much?'

John licks the grease off his fingers, trying not to look like he had been put on the spot. 'I don't know. It's just… I thought I knew all about you and in a short period of time I found out about two boyfriends. It's... unexpected.'

Sherlock turns his head to face him. John side-glances at him and goes back to the chips. 'What part of it is unexpected?' and his voice goes all weird and _wrong_. John can't put his finger on it, but he doesn't want Sherlock to sound like that. 'That I have the ability to have a relationship or that someone can like me, or-'

'Stop, stop that, no.' John leaves the chips aside, turning his body fully now. 'It's not that, Sherlock. I... I didn't think you would _want_ any of that, to be honest. The whole… sex thing.'

Sherlock purses his lips, looking from one eye to another, and something about his gaze makes John’s stomach do flip-flops. 'It's a bit complicated to explain.'

John crumbles the chips paper bag into a ball. 'I'm listening. No hurry.'

'I don't..' he looks away and up, pressing his lips, as if delving deep inside his mind for an answer. 'I don't feel attracted to random people. Not even celebrities and such.'

It's not a sentiment John can say he shares, but he nods anyway to demonstrate he is still listening. 

'But sometimes I do,' he continues, frowning. 'It's just that the idea of… dating and… getting physical with people I don't know is abhorrent to me. With people I don't really like or find interesting. For a lack of better words.'

John narrows his eyes, trying to make his alcohol-fueled mind work. 'But… isn't dating about having fun with people you like?'

'No.' Sherlock’s tone has the vehemence of someone who has heard the same argument over and over. 'Dating is about getting to know someone. You know I hate new people.'

'That I do.'

He tosses his head back to make a frustrated growling sound at the back of his throat. 'I don't like strangers. And this is already an obstacle. But I do get to know people eventually. And sometimes… I like them.'

'And then...' John tries to parse his words to avoid stepping on something he shouldn't. 'You are attracted to them?'

Sherlock tilts his head. 'Not exactly. It's just that when I like someone, the idea of everything else becomes more… comfortable for me.'

There's a moment of silence as they acknowledge the elephant in the room. John takes a breath to break it. 'So you don't like sex?'

'It's not that.' Sherlock closes his eyes and taps his fingers to his forehead. 'I don't think about sex as an abstract concept. I think about sex when there's a person involved.'

'Right. Not any person.'

'No.'

'Just the one you like.'

'Yes.'

'And then you enjoy… it.'

'Yes.'

John nods to himself, checking a random spot on Sherlock's shoulder, who takes the opportunity to look up to the sky. 

'It seems like a lot of steps to reach to the shagging part.'

A chuckle comes out of Sherlock out of nowhere, and he looks like he didn't expect to laugh, but John is relieved he isn't looking tense anymore. 'Yes, well, that's why my track record isn't as extensive as yours.'

'Shut up!' John snaps with a guffaw. 'Talking about track records. Greg… The way you talked about him, you don't seem to resent him. Did you like him a lot?'

Sherlock sighs. 'I suppose I did. And no, I don't resent him. But I felt so- like I had no control over it. I felt powerless. It's so hard already to get into a relationship, and then it ends over something I can't change?'

'I understand. Do you wish him the best and all?'

'I wish him to get stuffed.'

John barks another laugh, almost choking on it. Sherlock tries to hide his own grin to no avail. 'We don't have to be the better person all the time.'

'Nope' he pops the ‘p’ the way John hates, but at least it means he's in a good mood again.

'So… you like Victor then. And I don't even know him.'

Now Sherlock looks embarrassed, scratching slightly the back of his head. 'I met him last year, I worked for his father's funeral. They had this service dog attend the funeral; it was his father's, and it was about to retire. You know how you aren't supposed to pet service dogs?' He waits for John to nod before continuing. 'But it wasn't really working anymore, and it wasn't _going_ to after that, and I was bored, so I made a flower arrangement and put over the dog's vest. He came to talk to me later. I thought he was going to scold me, but he actually praised the work.'

'Did he ask you out during his father's funeral?' Incredulity seeps into John’s voice.

'What?! No, of course not! He asked for my business card. And a few weeks later he started asking for flowers. For multiple reasons. Not that frequently, of course, but enough that we had whole conversations, and we became acquainted, and he asked for my number. We started texting a lot, for random things. It took a long while for him to actually ask me out.'

'Do you think he knew?' John asks, feeling soft at Sherlock talking like this. 'That it wouldn't work if he just went for it?'

Sherlock shrugs. 'I don't know. But he also wasn't in a good place after his father died, so perhaps it wasn't even conscious. Maybe he just wanted a friend, in the beginning at least.'

John mulls this over. The whole boyfriend situation had been baffling, so this talk does help his head to make some sense of it. He just needs to readjust his parameters, and The Sherlock Holmes Mystery will be clear once again.

'Well then.' he gets up, slaps his hands on his trousers, picks up the crumbled paper bag to throw in the nearby trash bin. 'That means I have to meet him as soon as possible. You can't just not introduce your boyfriend to your best friend.'

Sherlock gets up, also throwing away the paper bag, but fishing a napkin from his pocket to wipe the grease off his fingers. 'I don't even know what to expect from this meeting.'

'It will be amazing, don't worry.' John clasps Sherlock's shoulder, trying to sound reassuring, but whether to his Sherlock or to himself is the part he's not so sure about.


	4. Tansy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Come say hi on my tumblr or twitter, although I'm more active on twitter. I talk about my projects and also post links to the songs for each chapter a bit before publishing it.
> 
> Song: Sunmi - Siren

The idea came from Shalom. John went with it because deep down he is sort of intimidated, although that's not really the word to describe it, about meeting Sherlock's boyfriend. The man has been kept under wraps, but John did stalk him on Instagram, to no avail since the profile is not public. He had hovered over the ‘Follow' button, but decided against it.

They agree to meet a month after John's proposal on a Thursday night at Angelo's, a familiar restaurant for John and Sherlock since Angelo is Sherlock's friend. They do not sit near the window, where Angelo usually puts them, because that table is not really fit for four. They do get a table at the back of the restaurant for more privacy.

They all nibble on pieces of bread, except for Sherlock. John and Shalom had arrived first, so John finally takes a moment to check Victor out surreptitiously while his girlfriend interviews him.

'British-indian? That's cool.' John doesn't know what's cool about nationalities, but he doesn't interrupt Shalom’s impressed nodding. 'On which side?'

'Mother's.' He doesn't have an accent, but he does speak somewhat slowly. 'She came to the UK to do a doctorall, and met my dad.'

'So you are bilingual?'

'Ah, polyglot actually. I speak English, Bengali, and German. I can understand a bit of French because of some school classes, but only barely.'

'German! Where did that come from?'

'I did my Masters in Freiburg, Germany.'

'In what area?'

'Biomedicine.'

'That's really cool.' 

_One more cool thing and she will be the one dating him_ , John thinks, stuffing his mouth with bread, very much aware that he and Sherlock are out of the conversation. Sherlock probably thinks this small-talk is quite tedious, as he is fidgeting with a napkin, and he and Shalom were never amicable anyway. John nudges him with his foot, making the man look up with a questioning glance. John frowns briefly as if scolding him. Sherlock just slow-blinks to hide the eye-roll. John kicks him again.

Victor Trevor is… not really what John expected, but then he is not sure what he was supposed to expect. The only reference John had was Greg Lestrade, who very much is not like him. Victor is a bit shorter than Sherlock but still a good ten centimetres taller than John. He's also larger than Sherlock. John grants this is not a hard feat since Sherlock is so lean, but just like Lestrade, Victor is not muscular. He wears a trim beard like a champ, John has to admit. The whole image does fit his low-pitched voice.

'John, you are quieter than I thought you would be.'

John shakes his head to get out of his reverie. Victor is talking to him.

He takes a deliberate sip of the wine. 'Did Sherlock tell you I was a chat-box?'

'I definitely didn't.' Sherlock pipes in, turning his head around as the waiter brings their meals, and they start to eat. Sherlock finally takes a remaining piece of bread from the basket to dip in the sauce.

'I just thought that you would be very sociable, considering how many people you know.' Victor continues with a polite smile.

'He does know a lot of people.' Shalom intervenes. 'He's not usually this shy.'

He frowns down at his farfalle. 'I'm not being shy, _darling_ ; you are monopolising the conversation.'

She side-eyes him with a squint, trying to convey _what the hell? behave_ with her eyes. John knows he’s being glared at; he never calls Shalom ‘darling’, much less in that tone, but she had it coming. But he also knows that he can just bury himself in good food and ask mundane questions instead of having Shalom blow up all over him like that time at the London Aquarium so he decides to play ball.

'Is your work related to your Masters then, Victor?' That’s all John can manage to ask because the things he wants to ask are probably not appropriate for a first-time conversation. 

'Not really. I used to work in lab research, but I ended up taking my dad's after he passed away last year.'

'We're sorry for your loss.' Shalom adds. John purses his lips at the "we". Not that he doesn't share the sentiment, but he doesn't like it when she speaks for him. 

'Thank you, but it's fine now,' Victor dismisses smoothly, chewing on his risotto. 'You are probably used to dealing with grief all the time, isn't it? Working in a crematorium.'

'Less than you'd expect.'

Which is true. He's a technician, nothing more. He's not the one who has to face people who lost someone, to console them; he doesn't have to say any words to them at all. Most of the time, mourners don't even notice he's there, which suits him just fine, as he has nothing to add to the ritual. He doesn't know any of the clients personally, how would he be able to grieve for them?

The conversation wanders, mostly led by Shalom and Victor. Sherlock doesn't intervene much. For once, he’s completely focused on his food, as he asks for dessert, and then coffee, and then they all concede to wine. Victor seems to be a sort of a charming soft-spoken person, conducting the whole night too politely. John snorts to himself, thinking that Victor has to accumulate the being-polite task all by himself, because one cannot leave that to Sherlock.

Being the typical social media activist and fueled by numerous glasses of wine, Shalom finally brings some political discussions to the table. Immigrants in the UK is the obvious first topic of choice, but Victor appears nonplussed by it. She presses on religious conflicts in India, based on what she saw in Slumdog Millionaire. But Victor argues that beyond yearly visits to his mother's family, he doesn't have much contact with Indian culture. His mom has always talked to him in Bengali at home, but he was mostly raised the British way.

It's very obvious that Sherlock is growing bored with this path of conversations, as he starts to pick on his phone from under the table. Shalom keeps giving him veiled dirty side-glances, and Victor tries to engage by touching him subtly. John does speak a bit now and then, but he's not much opinionated on this stuff.

Somehow, it reaches the economy, as these things usually go. 

'Well, most of the credit card debt is due to non-valuable assets. People keep giving money to renting when they could invest in owning property, all because they keep tying themselves to credit cards.' Victor says, sipping slightly his wine.

'I'm pretty sure most people don't just choose to be in debt.' John counters. 'Poverty does exist, and bills come non-stop, leaving nothing for savings. How can one invest in property without any savings? It’s a vicious cycle'

'Not from credit cards, though. Why would you borrow more money than you are able to pay with no interest? Using credit cards for living expenses instead of just extras in the budget is the biggest symptom of a troubled economy, as the non-payment of debts quickly reverts to reduction of living standards, halt of economy growth and subsequent unemployment.'

John hopes his grimace can express his despair for the argument. He ponders about opening a bank account just before aging out of foster care, immediately followed by a loan he never quite managed to pay back, choosing a technical career quick to be trained on just so he would start having a monthly salary as soon as possible. None of this is information he's willing to disclose indiscriminately. 'Look, payback to credit card companies would certainly be higher if their charged interest rates were reasonable to begin with. It mostly affects low-income groups into a debt spiral impossible to pay. I think there is a point where debt jubilees should become more acceptable.'

Victor finally shows some incredulity in his demeanor. 'But what would be the purpose of lending money to people who would never pay, then? In my opinion it would just lead to incompatible financial lifestyles being excused.'

'Must be easy coming from someone whose father paid for everything you built.' John spits without thinking what he’s saying. 'Some of us come into adult life having nothing and nobody to rely on except our skin.'

'John!' Shalom hisses through her teeth. Sherlock looks up from his phone, studying the table, realising something is finally happening.

'You don't need to be a jerk just because your upbringing wasn't ideal.' Victor replies coolly. 'Perhaps you could put some therapy on your credit card.'

'Woah, right, fuck off!' John puts away the glass he's been holding. Shalom buries her face into her palms. Sherlock looks from one to the other like watching a table tennis match.

'Ok, no need to get angry over that.' Victor takes his napkin from his lap and throws over the table. 'I think we all have been having some wine for a while now. How about I pay for dinner and we call it a night?'

John emits a humourless chuckle. 'You’re doing this on purpose, aren’t you?'

'John, stop.' his girlfriend whisper-shouts beside him, the sound like the hiss of a snake ready to attack.

'I insist. It's nothing for me.'

'Should be as your dad was the one who actually worked for it.'

'Oh my god, John, stop it!' 

'Some of us are lucky.' Victor smiles dangerously. 'I'm sorry you apparently weren't.'

John stands up, noticing Sherlock is watching him with wide eyes. He knows Sherlock had planned to sleep at Victor's, so John had invited Shalom to stay at 221B with him. She had even brought an overnight bag so she could go directly to work in the morning. 'See you tomorrow,' he offers to Sherlock, waiting for Shalom to follow him.

-*-

They fight on the way back to the flat. She says he behaved like an arsehole during the whole night, and the ending was the last straw.

'I just wanted you to be a bit more sociable. Is it so hard for you?'

'I thought you said the opposite at the beginning of the evening.'

'You had literally _no_ reason to go off like that. I was dying of embarrassment.'

They finally arrive at his flat's door, but she makes it clear she isn’t going to follow him in. 'Tell me _how_ did this become about you again, Shalom? I was the one left humiliated there, and _you_ are embarrassed?'

Shalom crosses her arms over her chest. 'Look, John, he wasn't trying to humiliate you, but then you turned the conversation into a fight. I was almost sure you were beginning a pub brawl or something.' She swipes her curls back with one hand, and leaves it there, holding onto the scalp. 'You are completely unpredictable. I have no idea where to step with you, and I'm not sure I want to go on like this.'

He raises his eyebrows, shaking his head to try to parse this. 'So… wait, you're breaking up? Over _this_? A dinner fight that didn't even involve you?'

She rolls her eyes. 'If you think it was only about today, then I'm right. You are just incapable of committing… Forget it! I left my stuff in your room, can you please go get it?'

He trips a bit on the stairs as he goes up to grab her backpack, mulling if all his exes are part of a club where they say the same things over and over to John. They must have a guidebook for the next people coming over, so when they break up with John they can follow the same script.

Sherlock, as stated in the original plan, does not come back home for the night.

-*-

The invitation comes by post five months later, sealed in a fancy beige envelope with John's name written in elaborate cursive golden letters on the back. Sherlock puts it on the table beside John's chair so John can see it when he arrives, since he can't rely on his memory to give the message. He tends to delete uninteresting things from his hard drive.

John had said before leaving he was going to the movies with his new girlfriend. Sherlock is not quite sure who this one is, since all the names get mixed up in his head, but he vaguely remembers her being here for the Christmas party Mrs. Hudson organised. 

He had been in a bad mood that day because Victor refused to come if John didn't apologise to him, something Sherlock is sure it's never going to happen. He thinks John picked up on it, as he stayed with Sherlock afterwards instead of leaving early with the woman as previously intended. Sherlock barely saw her.

His phone pings again, making him sigh. Victor is in Bristol for some business. He had asked Sherlock to come spend the weekend with him, but Sherlock had denied. It's not like they would’ve been doing a lot anyway with Victor having to attend multiple work meetings. Sherlock would be bored, and consequently annoyed, and then he would snap at Victor, which would lead to another fight. Best to cut all the tedious clutter out by opting out of the trip in the first place. 

But it had turned out to be a bad move, because Victor had got upset. After what Sherlock could call their honeymoon period, in its place there is a constant feeling of frustration. He keeps claiming Sherlock doesn't let himself get too involved. That he wants a bit more of Sherlock's attention. Victor even offered to change things midway so both of them could be satisfied.

'You can tell me when you are bored, I swear.' Victor had told him. 'We can think of something else to do, or to talk about. Just don't shut me out, because this helps nobody.'

'Just having these conversations is tedious enough.' had been Sherlock’s counter-argument. A weak one, but his reasoning all the same.

'Well, you can't expect me to read minds. _No one_ can do that. If you want this to work, you need to communicate with me.'

Problem is, Sherlock is so tired of having to work more than everyone else for his relationships to work. Why can't he just find someone that knows what he wants? The need for these conversations diminishes the will he has to keep up with a boyfriend. He already has to explain so much without relationship shenanigans added to the equation.

If he likes a man, it should be easy. Beginning to like is a long path he needs to take, and not everyone is willing to wait for him. Perhaps if there's so much to unveil even after that, it's because it's not supposed to be?

He had loved Greg. In a way that it was too soon for him to feel with the same intensity about Victor. And yet, Greg had felt like something else was in the way, but only told him so later on. Right after the break-up, Sherlock spent weeks wishing he had never met him. He wished Greg had told him upfront that he felt too uncomfortable dating men a solid decade younger than him. He asked himself repeatedly if he would be way happier without having someone who told him they loved him too just leave like it was nothing.

Dating is just something he wasn't built to do. He wants to reach the _stability with a partner_ part, and just be.

And yet, it seems like he is useless in the area, regarding his track record in keeping boyfriends. Victor is already fighting him, seven months into the relationship.

**received  
I just feel like a lot would be simpler if you open up. You will end up exploding and damage control is hard after that. VT**

What can he even reply to that? No, Victor, I don't want to open up. My head is too messed up for the general population. He opens a new tab in his phone browser (currently supporting fifty-seven open tabs he refuses to close) and types the most random thing he can think of.

_flower arrangements in desert areas_

Top links include two pages of pinterest, a page is tired of frequenting to report people uploading pictures of his designs without his permission. Another one is Etsy, which he refuses to click. The rest of the page results are somehow related to California-US, being of no interest to him when he had Morocco in mind. Should he search Morocco…?

**received  
I can see that you read the message, you know? This is childish. VT **

The downstairs door clicks closed, and soon enough John appears in the living room. 'How can someone like movies that don't even have a story?' he asks the general vicinity of the room, hanging his coat and removing his shoes. 'It's just weirdly framed shots and everyone smoking in silence. At least the colour palette is beige and friendly enough instead of vibrant and headache inducing.' 

'Hm.' Sherlock says, still staring at the message. 'I could do with a cigarette.'

'Over my dead body.' John replies good-naturally, walking to the fridge to collect a beer and coming back to sit on his chair, drinking directly from the bottle.

Sherlock types multiple times and ends up erasing everything. The screen says Victor is online, probably watching bemusedly as he makes a fool of himself. Does he want Sherlock to expose himself? Well, he just got it.

**sent  
I have no idea how to navigate this. I don't know what I should say. SH **

He can see from his peripheral vision that John is now reading the contents of the pompous letter he received. He then fishes his phone out of his pocket and makes a call. Sherlock is not paying attention to him, so he doesn't bother trying to figure out the context.

**received  
What is ‘this’ supposed to mean? What does your "this" refer to, and you don't know what to say in response to what? VT **

'Hey Ted! It's been ages, how you doing?'

John's conversation is tuned out again in favour of him trying not to overthink. The pragmatic part of him praises Victor for attempting meticulous specificity. Sometimes it is hard to understand what the hell people are talking about in abstract terms, so having a conversation in categorised boxes helps immensely with clarity of subject. 

His tired self just wants Victor to get over it.

John sits again in front of him with a heavy sigh while he is typing. Yes, he will give specificity, but he will give in to a bit of passive-aggressiveness. Just a little bit.

'-ot listening to me, are you?'

Sherlock blinks up as he hits send. 'Sorry, what?'

John has his face resting over his closed fist, elbow propped on the chair's armrest. The beige envelope sits on his lap. 'What is so interesting in there?' and he motions his chin to signal Sherlock's phone.

'Ah.' he presses his lips and puts the phone away. 'Just Victor. What is _that_ about?'

John quickly removes the thick card from inside the envelope. Usually Sherlock avoids mentioning Victor since the dinner incident almost 5 months before. There is a mutual non-verbal agreement between them to pretend Sherlock's boyfriend is just an inanimate entity that has nothing to do with John. Sherlock wishes it wasn't like this, he truly does, but there's only so much one can do without getting into other people's matters.

John puts the letter in his lap back on the side-table. 'It's an invitation for a wedding vow's renewal. Stella and Ted, do you remember them?'

Sherlock blinks. Stella and Ted? Not names he remembers, and he makes an effort to convey this fact in his face without bothering to say anything. John rolls his eyes.

'Yeah, thought so. We met at their wedding.'

'Ah. Ok...' Sherlock says, but not really.

'Anyway. They decided to renew their vows, in mid-April.'

'Location wedding?'

'How do you know?'

'Three months of antecedence can only be explained if you want your guests to plan a long trip.'

'Yeah, well. They have been living in France for work for three years now, since they got married, so they decided to have it there. Just talked to Ted on the phone, Stella wanted something more rustic and pretty or whatever that means, hence the south of France.'

Sherlock knows there's something else, or John wouldn't bother sharing any of this information with him. It's not like Sherlock cares about ceremonies about people he doesn't know personally. But he also knows John will hardly volunteer his concerns before going round and round the garden a little while.

'However, it does make it harder for London-based guests to be present. Are you intending to go?' Sherlock treads carefully.

John shrugs, picks a lint out of his trousers. 'Yes, even if it is a bit hard.' he looks all around the living room while Sherlock waits in silence. 'We stayed together at the last foster house before I turned eighteen. He is like a brother to me.'

'I see.' he then frowns. 'I've never heard you talk about him.'

'Yes, well.' John swipes his palms on his jeans covered thighs, as if there’s something he’s desperately trying not to verbalise. 'We sort of followed different paths in life. But I still miss him. It's good to meet from time to time.'

He leaves the room and also the feeling that the unspoken things are still under the carpet.


	5. Anemone

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Come say hi on my tumblr or twitter, although I'm more active on twitter. I talk about my projects and also post links to the songs for each chapter a bit before publishing it.
> 
> If you're wondering how Victor looks like in this story, he's the one in the cover, pasted back on chapter 1! The couple hugging are Stella and Ted.
> 
> Song for the chapter: Crayon Pop - C'mon C'mon

The next day John brings the girlfriend home. They are going out soon to meet her parents for lunch, something John has been fretting about the whole day. Not out of nervousness, John is not pedestrian like that, but he does get uncomfortable around other people's families. He once told Sherlock that he never knows what they expect him to say, and he's not one for volunteering information about his personal life that easily.

Sherlock spends at least forty minutes plucking mindlessly at his violin's strings before deciding what he is playing for today. Prokofiev's sheet appears from his folder. Violin Concerto No. 2 in G minor it is. But as soon as the bow touches the strings, a screech barely audible to a non-trained ear catches his attention. The violin is untuned.

He takes his time tuning it back, and because he is too conditioned to a routine, he plays scales for an hour after that, even after guaranteeing the sound is the way it's supposed to be.

In the meantime, Sherlock registers with his peripheral vision that the woman arrives. He turns his back to the room, trying to dismiss the newcomer since she is not interrupting him, but the knowledge a stranger is watching him when he is vulnerable like this makes the back of his head burn. He stops and reassembles all the instrument material. Prokofiev will be postponed for today.

'That was really good, Sherlock.' she says pleasantly, finally addressing him. 

He notices John in the kitchen, cleaning a bottle of wine, probably bought for the occasion. 'Thank you, Sarah. I was just practicing.'

She purses her lips, and her face immediately changes to signal _pissed off_ , making him confused. What did he say this time?

'Don't mind him, he's not good with names.' John appears, pulling her away by the shoulders.

_Oh, he got the name wrong. Easily fixable._ 'No, no I can do this. Sarah was the doctor, then there was the one with the nose, the one with spots, who was after the boring teacher?' he closes his eyes in concentration. In all the time he knows John, he truly exceeded himself lately as he jumped from one girlfriend to the other in record time.

'Nobody.' she replies cooly.

'Jeanette!' he produces his best rehearsed smile. John says it's creepy, but people are always telling him that a smile opens many doors. Does it make a difference if the smile is not sincere? It's not like he can be genuine on cue. 'Process of elimination always works.'

'Right.'

'I'll be ready in a minute, ok?' John suddenly speeds up with his routine perhaps wanting to avoid another incident between their significant others.

Sherlock moves to his desk and opens his file of ideas. He likes to brainstorm new arrangements and designs through sketching. Drawing is not really his forte, and it has never been his intention to be, but putting at least diagrams on paper helps to funnel how his mind works, which is usually with overflow of information.

Jeanette doesn't take a seat, perhaps an unconscious decision to avoid more delay, and keeps circling the living room to take a look at the random stuff he and John fill the area with. Ok, mostly his stuff. He tries to ignore her presence.

Which is why he almost jumps out of his chair when she approaches him without warning. 'You are a bit of a jerk, but your work is really nice.'

He puts a hand on his chest to keep his heart from jumping out of it. 'Thank you.'

'My niece is having a party next month. I saw some of your headpieces and flower crowns on your website. How do you feel about designing an original one for her? It could be my gift.'

Anyone who works with artistic products needs to put their portfolio online. Initially Sherlock would publish on the flower shop website, but Mrs. Hudson encouraged him to be more competitive, and treat this as a skill to put on a CV. That's how some freelance jobs started coming in. He only posts products he was already paid for, since new ideas get stolen all the time, especially when they hit social media. Pinterest is a particular nightmare.

Headpieces especially have been trending lately. He started doing it for open casket funerals, but sub-celebrities on Instagram made it popular enough that other people started looking for daily purposes. Problem is that most people don't realise using real flowers for flower crowns means they will fade fast, and they can't be reused. He had to put a warning on his commission guidelines that he doesn't work with fake flowers, because if one more person sent him an inbox asking for it, he would throw his computer out of the window.

He considers how to answer without creating havoc. 'Please check the commission guidelines and send me an inbox through the website, I'll consider the request and my availability.'

It's a polite and professional answer, but apparently Jeanette was expecting some kind of special treatment for friends (which he doesn't do. Ever.), because she looks like someone forced to suck on a lemon. 'Ok, then.' 

John finally comes in ready, and they both leave.

-*-

Contrary to what many people think, research is an essential part of being an artist. Ideas don't come from thin air, and most works need references. Sherlock regularly dedicates some of his free time to research. His current interest is the modern development of Ikebana. Japan makes floral design and arrangement a respectable art. He's not sure he likes the new wave of designs, but they certainly give food for thought.

Since Sherlock will be left on his own devices for the whole afternoon, he turns on loud music on the stereo. He ignores Mrs. Hudson whipping her ceiling with a broom, right under him. A patisserie nearby delivers on Sundays, and he orders a pie. Sketch book in hand, japanese art on the screen, bloodstream full of sugar and Spandau Ballet blasting, he's content for hours.

The room is getting dark when Sherlock finally looks up. It's almost dusk, and while it's still day outside, the living room needs electric light to be comfortable for the eyes again. In the brief interval between one song and the other, he notices his phone is going off.

The name **Victor** reads on the screen. He sighs, debating internally that it took long enough, and swipes up to get the call.

'Finally!' his voice sounds exasperated into his ear. 'You didn't see my messages. This is the third time I called you.'

'Seems a bit excessive.' he replies stretching out on the sofa.

'There's excessive and there is the North Pole, Sherlock.'

He bites back a groan, closing his eyes. It's going to be one of those conversations.

'Are you there?'’

'Yes.'

'Look, I'm feeling like the crazy one here. Is it too much to ask for a bit of attention from you?'

Is he implying Sherlock is the crazy one? 'It's not. But I can't give you 100% of my time.'

'I never asked you that.'

'It's just...' he digs his toes into the cushion of the armrest, and pulls at his scalp slightly. He wants to feel pressure, not pain. 'Even if I am physically with you, I can't focus on you entirely.'

There's a pause. 'Ok. Why not?'

All the muscles in his body tighten for a few seconds and he drops the strength, feeling like a ragged doll thrown on the sofa. His legs feel heavy after spending hours sitting down. He turns so he can prop them up the wall behind the sofa, and his head hangs slightly upside down. 'It feels like doing one thing at a time. I get dispersed.' Understimulated is actually the word in his mind, but his soft underbelly is already up to the wolves, he can't just throw everything at once.

'I see.' The call is not the best, and Sherlock can hear a lot of noise from a distance. It seems like Victor is in the middle of the street. Probably at the station, preparing to go back to London. 'I just think we should at least talk about these things before you get restless.'

'I just explained to you. Why do we have to keep talking?'

'Because,' and now Victor puts emphasis on his voice. 'You get upset if I ask you to do something you don't want to. But only _you_ know what you want, I only get the upset end. You can't just be disappointed when people don't act like you ideally expect.'

He plays with the hem of his shirt. He concedes that Victor has a point, but he doesn't want to admit it yet.

'Are you coming back already?' he asks softly, hoping Victor catches the change of his tone.

'Yes.' It apparently works, because Victor also drops his voice to a gentle inflection. 'I'll get the train in fifteen minutes. I'll arrive in Paddington around eight.'

Sherlock thinks it over for a moment. 'It's five minutes from Paddington to Baker Street.'

'I know. Do you want me to come over?'

He swallows down the slight irritation that threatens to come up, since he thought he was being obvious enough. 'Yes.'

'I'll be there then.' and now he can hear the smile that implies the fight is over. He savours it.

-*-

John is sitting on his RSVP for Stella and Ted's ceremony. He will go, that's not a question, the problem is his plus-one. He's not sure he will still be with Jeanette in three months, but even right now, the idea of taking her to what is basically going to be a second wedding doesn't sit well with him. He doesn't want to.

So on the day after receiving the invitation, and talking to Ted on the phone about it, John spends a whole afternoon with Jeanette and her family, including parents, brother, sister-in-law and niece, pretending he doesn't have any news to tell her. He has a gut feeling she will not take kindly the fact that he doesn't want her at his friend/brother's wedding.

Her family is mostly fine, but they definitely are not ones for dark humour, a feature very much present in John's personality. They are not overly religious, but they go to church every Sunday because they are taught so. They regularly give away for charity without thinking much about it. They are as polite as your typical British neighbour, but still lack the filter of inconvenient questions about topics they don't understand much.

'Isn't it too morbid, working with dead people?' Jeanette's mum asks over irish coffee after lunch at their house in the suburbs. 'I would never sleep at night after seeing them.'

'Less than you'd think. They are just dead.' he replies, accepting another beer from Jeanette's brother. 'Up until now, only the living hurt me.'

The only answer he gets to this is a long staring and awkward nodding, before she changes the subject.

He's not fond of meeting people's families at all . He's mostly glad he survives the day without anyone asking about his own. Perhaps she had warned them not to beforehand, in that case he's grateful at least.

His mood definitely goes from uncomfortable to sour upon finding Victor Trevor at 221B when he goes back. Victor and Sherlock are snogging at the sofa and don't notice him, so he goes directly upstairs to avoid talking to them. He knows Victor wouldn't throw a hiss over it, quite the opposite, as John can guess why he didn't come over to Mrs. Hudson small Christmas gathering.

Thankfully, Victor leaves early in the morning, sparing him of the last opportunity of meeting. 

But whatever it was that Victor brought with him, it infected Sherlock, as he gets a miserable stomach flu for the next three days. He was supposed to meet Jeanette somewhere in between, but he uses the excuse of buying Sherlock a medicine and watching over him to avoid her possible questioning.

-*-

It is almost a rule of thumb that when mourner families buy special urns for the ashes of the deceased, the urn is too small. To be fair, it's not often that people are required to calculate how a loved one's weight plus coffin size will transform into ashes. As these things normally go, TV doesn't help in properly informing how cremations work.

So it comes down to John to try to fit as maximum as possible inside the urn. Funeral houses hide a lot of the gory details from families, since they are not really a public necessity knowledge, nevertheless for someone experiencing grief from up close. One of the details is that if the ashes don't fit, the crematorium technician will simply dispose of the leftovers when nobody's looking.

This week was especially busy in the funeral house, because of a car accident. The family had been in a mini-van on its way to the beach when a bus lost control while changing lanes. The minivan went down a cliff and got completely mashed. The bodies were almost unrecognisable, hence the decision to just cremate everyone.

This meant creating an actual queue in the crematorium. John has been working on them for two days, his deadline before the remaining family fills in a legal complaint. He has been running around to be able to vacuum each remains from the burner to the odd machine that transforms the lumpy sand full of bones and teeth into proper ash. Everything goes to the default labeled plastic urns until he can decant them to the family urns.

They have a small garden at the back of the funeral house. Not easy to keep, what with being in London, so they mostly keep some simple bushes with easy flowers. When Mike had the idea of the garden, he initially hired Mrs. Hudson to plan it. For later upkeep sessions, Sherlock comes.

John usually takes the leftover ashes to the garden. It works surprisingly well as a compost. It's also a moment he can take a break for himself. It's cathartic to walk slowly throwing the ashes on the ground. The garden reminds him of Sherlock, as he can see his signature all over it.

Fuchsias are low maintenance, thrive in shade - which is a huge advantage in London, and attracts bees. John particularly likes the white fuchsias, as they gleam in the dark. Pretty and ominous for a funeral house. The bushes of Solomon's Seal are always hiding a surprise, being worms or birds looking for the worms. Chrysanthemums have a peculiar smell that can be felt when the wind blows, making the garden very pleasant.

Sherlock likes to line up flowers according to shades, and having random spots of colour in the middle of the dominant white. He cuts bushes not in geometrical shapes, but rather in a way to emphasise the natural growth of the plants. John has accompanied him before while he was doing it. 

'Ah, hey John.' Molly closes the back door behind her, closing her cardigan tightly around her. 'Thought you'd be here. The Jones case, isn't it?'

'Yes.' and he drops the rest of the plastic urn, realising he had drifted off enough to not notice her coming out. 'You need something from me?'

'Ah, not really. It's just. There's a pre-teen down there.'

He winces. Children are never easy. 'Sorry. Want to talk about it?'

She shakes her head. 'It's fine. Some fresh air and I'll be right as rain. Can I?' she points with her chin to the last plastic urn sitting on the ground beside him. He gestures with his palm that she's welcome to.

'It was an overdose.' Molly says while dropping ashes in the blue geraniums vase. The wind blows it off a bit, and John tries to stay out of its way, to avoid having someone's ashes on his clothes. 'He was almost thirteen. His lungs were a mess. How can this happen to someone so young?'

He remembers Harry, off the rails on liquor at the tender age of 17. While not common for siblings, they ended up being separated most of the time after their father finally lost it to the same issue. At 14, John was put in the same state senior school she studied for the first time. He had been shocked to learn she was used to drinking everyday. 

'We are here because dad couldn't do anything but drink.' he had hissed at her at the back of the school synthetic grass pitch, where other people came to smoke and makeout away from the eyes of responsible adults. 'Everyday? Seriously? Don't yours notice, or do they let you? Don't you think you should talk to your social assistant'

'We are not here because of dad.' she had snarled, ignoring all the other questions. Up until this point she had been just chewing gum unworried, but mentioning their parents it's sort of a forbidden topic for them. 'We are here because of mum, who saw he was an useless pig early on and ran away on her own.'

'Stop that.' he had said, trying to keep his voice firm.

'The worst is that you don't even remember. I have to be the one that keeps reminding you. Good luck, John. I'm out.'

He doesn't know if Harry had a choice in becoming an alcoholic or not, but many things that happened to them weren't their choice.

'I don't know, Molly.' he finally answers, gathering up the urns to bring them back inside. 'World is a shit place.'

-*-

'Mixing cheese with poultry is not my idea of a good meal, John.'

'Ah, come on.' John skims through the Speedy's menu. 'There _must_ be something you like. There's nothing unreasonable here.'

They are both in the opposite mood for cooking, but it's a wednesday night, and John doesn't want to spend the weekend's budget on takeaway. He usually exceeds it anyway, so better keep in check. Speedy's has good food for alright prices. Except that Sherlock is absolutely picky at eating, and everything must be up to his standards or he'd rather not eat at all. It's usually a nightmare to eat out with him, if you don't know the places to avoid.

'Nothing is unreasonable for you, you eat full meals out of cans.' Sherlock pouts a bit.

'Food is food and I love eating. Look, jacket potatoes! How about a tuna mayonnaise salad filling? Or a vegetable risotto?' he does see a seafood risotto, but he knows Sherlock would rather bite his head off before eating seafood that came from a sandwich bar.

'Hm. I'll have a burger.' and moves to the counter, where the cashier is already waiting since she saw them entering the place. A long ago.

John thanks the heavens, and chooses the jacket potato for himself. Sherlock pays and goes to the other side of the counter to wait, while John makes his order. The cashier, smiles full teeth at him. 'You took your time. Ready to order?'

He smiles politely and tells her what he wants. 'Is he your friend?' she asks while placing the order in the system. 

She must be new, then. Or she could be working on a different shift than usual, around a time John is usually at work. There is a name tag attached to her uniform but he doesn't bother reading it. 'Yes. Also flatmate.'

'I think it's nice when friends are so patient with each other.' she pushes the machine forward so he can swipe his card, while resting her head on her fist, elbow on top of the counter. 'You seem very sweet.'

'Ah. Thanks. I'll just wait over there, see you!'

They get their food and take it to 221B's kitchen. Sherlock hates ketchup, but pours a bit of mayo over his small side chips. 'She was hitting on you.' he says with his mouth full of burger.

John actually swallows first before answering. 'I'm aware.'

'You could have responded.

' I could.'

'You usually do.'

'Yes.'

'Why not, then?'

'Look, I don't cheat.' it's wednesday but a bottle of beer from Tesco won't hurt, so he's taking sips in between food. 'Even if I already know it's not going to work with Jeanette, I prefer to have a clean slate.'

Sherlock hums in acquiesce. 'How do you know it's not going to work?'

'Ugh. What can I say?' he leans back against the chair, beer in hand. 'She's becoming too much too soon. It's like she jumps over the steps and she's ready for everything before I even catch up.'

'Is she hinting at marriage?'

'No. Not exactly, except that she sort of is? She makes plans for the distant future. Sometimes I realise she's talking about five years from now. We didn't even reach six months of dating, who does that?'

Sherlock shrugs. 'I don't know. Is that why you haven't told her about the wedding yet?'

'How do you kn- nevermind.' he shakes his head to sweep away the thought. 'Yes. I RSVPd without a plus one name. And it's a vow renewal's ceremony, not a wedding.'

Sherlock just gestures "whatever" with his hand. 'Because you can be dating someone else until then?'

'What? No, I'm not taking a date.'

Sherlock raises one eyebrow. 'You lost me there.'

'Look, you don't know Stella and Ted. They will be all marriage talk, and that will sound conducive to conversations I don't want to have. In fact, they will incentivise it. I don't want Jeanette to be exposed to that, and I think a recent date will get all the wrong ideas.'

'Then why did you say you were taking a plus one with you?' Sherlock has his brow furrowed at him. 'You could have just said you are going by yourself.'

'But I don't want to go by myself, I'll look pathetic.'

'Then I don't know how to solve your problem.' Sherlock gets up to throw the takeaway packaging in the trash bin.

A thought is formed in John's mind. A possibility? He watches Sherlock putting the kettle on, and taking two mugs from the cupboard. John realises his beer is over already, and Sherlock probably has noticed. He ruminates the idea, tasting it around his tongue. Technically it can happen, but it faces one big obstacle, and it is British-Indian.

-*-

Two weeks after receiving the invitation, Jeanette finds out what's happening, and it's not pretty of course.

She has developed the habit of inviting herself to everything he does. To be fair, she also expects him to go with her to all sorts of commitments. A good night out with the boys now means she will be included, not that those happen that frequently. None of his friends have expressed displeasure at her presence, but John himself is a bit annoyed by it.

So it all comes down when she turns up at John’s funeral house one day while he is helping Mike to close down the house. 

'Hi, Jeanette,' Mike welcomes her pleasantly as always. 'How are your students, giving you trouble?'

'Mostly disinterested. You know, teenagers.'

'My twins haven't reached that phase yet.' he answers with a groan. 'I hope puberty doesn't hit too hard.'

She laughs. 'It's not all of them, I swear. I bet you'll be fine.'

'I don't even have friends to guide me through it.' Mike laments. 'Ted and Stella were my first bet, but I think they will come late. Which reminds me.' and he addresses John now, who was laying low on the side, waiting for the small talk to be over. 'I was checking with my mother-in-law, but she can't take the kids on the weekend of their ceremony. I have to RSVP today. Did you do yours already?'

Both look at John, who feels like an insect in a petri dish. 'Aah, yes. Talk to you later about that.'

'What RSVP? What ceremony?' Jeanette has already smelled something fishy going on, and poor Mike looks like a deer in the headlights, realising he’s said something he was not supposed to say. 

'Let's talk over dinner.' John pushes her weakly for them to leave. Mike just waves good-bye, and mouths "sorry" to him when she turns her back.

Needless to say, she goes ballistic once they arrive at Baker Street. He explains that these are long-term friends and it will be very intimate, so he doesn't think they are on the stage to be going to these events together yet. She is offended by that.

'So you think we aren't serious?' she widens her eyes at him. 'Because I've been serious this whole time.'

"Don't I know it." he thinks but knows better than to voice it.

'This doesn't have to be a dealbreaker.' he tries to save his face. It's not like he doesn't enjoy being with her, but he prefers to run a marathon instead of sprinting.

'It sounds like a dealbreaker that you keep trying to run away from me, John.' The good thing about Jeanette is that she doesn't like dramatic scenes. That had been more typical of Shalom. 'I have the feeling that you prioritise everyone else over me.'

'When in the world did this happen?'

'Should I count?' she resorts to sarcasm. 'My friends are so wrong about you. I think you are a great boyfriend.'

He blinks at the non-sequitur. 'Really? I always thought I was great.'

'And Sherlock Holmes is a very lucky man.' she takes a look at her watch and gets up.

'No, come on. It's just a party, it's not even the real wedding!'

'Than more reason for me going to not be a big deal!' she buttons up her coat.

'Look, I will walk your dog.' he pleads. 'I'm not offering again, this is very important, isn't it?'

She frowns and looks at him like he's gone insane. 'I don't have a dog.'

'No-no.' he stutters, trying to restart his brain. Then closes his eyes. 'Because that was the last one.'

'Jesus.' and leaves.

He supposes it's one less problem he has to deal with.


	6. Verbena

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Come say hi on my tumblr or twitter, although I'm more active on twitter. I talk about my projects and also post links to the songs for each chapter a bit before publishing it.
> 
> Song for the chapter: Primary, ChoA, IRON - Don't be shy

Sherlock knows John doesn't really like one-night stands, since it takes a lot of trust to go somewhere private with a person you just met and have no intention of getting to know better. He and Sherlock both agree that, being in the death business for so long, it's a behaviour highly conducive to bad things happening, such as date rape, homophobic traps and organs trafficking. 

The paranoid is deemed ridiculous every day but one.

Two months of dry spell do take a toll on a person, especially since that person is actively avoiding trying to get involved with anyone before particular major events that led to the previous break-up of said person.

In general, women are statistically less probable to agree to a one-night stand, due to societal expected prudish behaviour, general expectation of follow-ups being higher than men, and latent fear of the same reasons the two of them are paranoid, but perhaps even more justified. Sherlock had cited all this reasoning to John, who after further evaluation, switched from Tinder to Grindr, and managed to snatch a sex date with one Henry Knight from Dartmoor, only in London for a few days.

John had asked him to stop calling it a sex date, to no avail.

Before John proposes the sex date, they unite to stalk Henry on social media. Well, John goes through social media, Sherlock tries the public criminal records. Henry does seem to be an innocuous person. His Instagram page is open, and there are quite a lot of pictures from his house, which is huge. John accidentally likes one photo of him in his swimming pool from three years ago.

'Oh my god, it was an accident! I even undid it, look, can you stop laughing now?'

'That's hilarious!' Sherlock guffaws, throwing himself on the sofa with an arm over his eyes. This is the biggest fun he's had lately, what with him and Victor fighting almost constantly. In fact, one of the main motivations for him to help John with getting a hookup had been to take his mind out of it.

John rage-sniffs. Sherlock can't see it, but he knows how it sounds by heart. 'So you never misclicked something on your phone?' he asks in irritation.

'You're just impressed that he's rich.'

'With all due respect, shut the fuck up.'

Sherlock complies, looking at John with solemn eyes after he’s done with his fit of laughter. 'Please still message me before and after leaving the hotel, we can never be sure.'

John smiles at him, all the emotional communication between them happening in the exchange of looks, and pockets his phone. 'Will do.'

-*-

Victor goes to wash his face at the washbasin, while Sherlock stands in the middle of the living room, looking fixedly at the carpet, arms akimbo. He hates this, it's a vile process he was never trained to engage with. Nine months of relationship. It was nurtured just as a pregnancy, with its ups and downs, but it all comes to the point where you give birth to the parasite eating you alive and it's over.

Except you are supposed to take care of whatever grew out of you, not dump it in the sewer.

Sherlock has been turning the blind eye to the inevitable for a while now. There is no way Victor would want to keep him, as he seemed discontented most of the time. He has no idea why this didn't happen sooner.

The first time Victor made a flirty comment to him, he didn't realise until hours later, back to his shift. He had wanted to hit himself in the head with a garden shovel for his stupidity. 

He had been terribly flattered.

However, he also didn't expect it would happen again. Yet, it did, over the bouquet of white jasmines Victor had ordered, of all things. The flowers that symbolise sweet love. It _had_ to have been a purposeful choice.

It's unclear if Victor had intended to break up with him before asking him to come over. He had largely explained to Sherlock, or rather thrown at his face, all of Sherlock's bad habits that bother him. 

It had been aggravating. Sherlock definitely hadn't wanted to sit through that. 

After almost two hours of discussion, he feels rubbed raw. Yes, he knows he's far from the ideal boyfriend, or even person, but to have his flaws enumerated at him is too humiliating. 

He doesn't know how to change his personality. He doesn't know if he can convince Victor to stay with him the way he is. It seems Victor also doesn't know if this is possible, as his frustration had been visibly built up through the night, to the verge of tears.

If he could press a switch to adapt himself and be an ideal person, would he?

'I don't know what to do.' Victor's voice breaks the silence, as he comes back to the living room. Sherlock likes Victor's voice. It's low and very soothing, and he speaks slowly so people don't notice his speech impediment. A good combination when he puts his mouth right on Sherlock's ear. He greatly favours texting instead of calling, but he doesn't mind as much if he gets to hear his voice.

Did he lose it, the chance of hearing his voice in his ear? He tries to answer, but can only manage a shake of his head.

'It's not going to work like this.'

Greg had told him something similar. Usually when something doesn't work, you fix it. Sherlock's dad had always loved fixing broken stuff around the house when Sherlock still lived there: the kitchen table, Mycroft's bed frame, Mummy's gardening bench, the tap from the bathroom, Sherlock's wooden sword. He even fixed the TV once. Sherlock hasn’t taken after him. He is terrible at fixing things, more so broken relationships.

And age is not fixable, age is _fixed_. For something that can't be changed, age plays a huge role in people's decision-making processes. 

'Can you _please_ say something?' Victor pleads, desperation tinting his voice. Sherlock is afraid Victor will tear up again, as he himself is trying to keep his composure. He swallows a lump stuck in his dry throat. No matter how many times, it hurts. Why does it hurt every time? Why does he not get acclimated to it?

'I wish I wasn't this kind of person.' he murmurs, still looking down at the floor.

_Defective_

Victor bites his bottom lip. 'Do you still have feelings for me?'

He nods minimally.

A loaded silence follows. Victor then walks up to him, circling his waist and holding him tight. Sherlock flails stupidly for a second, not expecting this, but puts his hands over Victor's shoulders and closes his eyes. His hair is soft against Sherlock's cheek. He can smell the very distant aroma of Paco Rabanne, the perfume Victor uses to go to work, already faded after clinging to his warm skin the whole day.

He remembers when he first identified the perfume. Victor had asked for a table arrangement for a brunch or whatever the excuse just to see Sherlock again. After a bit of conversation leaning into the doorframe, he had taken a single violet from it and put it behind Sherlock's ear, followed by a lingering kiss on his cheek.

Before he could move away, Sherlock had slightly turned his head, and taking the hint, Victor had changed targets, aiming for his lips next. His perfume had almost overwhelmed Sherlock.

'I'm going to Kolkata on Friday,' he murmurs into Sherlock's shoulder. He opens his eyes.

'Ok?'

'I will be spending a couple weeks there with my mother's family. I think… we should take a break until then.'

Sherlock wants to move away, feeling like there is an irreconcilable incongruity between Victor’s words and his body language that he can't quite process. But he's not the one with more experience here, life or relationships wise, Victor being a few years older, so he stays in place, trying to parse what is coming next.

The arms around Sherlock squeeze his waist almost at an uncomfortable level. 'Let's use this time to think about things. Breathe away from each other for a bit. No pressure, no rules, no commitment. If you consider yourself happier during this time than you were before… then we are definitely over.'

He releases Sherlock, but before he takes a step back he holds Sherlock's face in a manner so tender, as if he were holding a kinabalu orchid, so fragile he could fall apart at something stronger than a breeze. Their closed lips touch for a moment, once, twice, and finally Victor pulls away.

The distance between them is still short enough that Sherlock has to look back and forth from one brown eye to the other. 'What about you?'

'What about me?'

'You said.' he frowns and recollects his memory to use the exact words, there's no room for mistake here. 'You said if I consider myself happier we are over. What about you? Are you trying to assess if you were happier before?'

Victor gives him a tiny sad smile. 'I wasn't. But it's time we look forward, not backwards.'

-*-

For the first time in a long while, they are both single. At the same time. John doesn't ask the reason behind the breakup, but he tries to be supportive in his own way. Sherlock is under no illusions that John is nothing short of glad to be ridden of Victor and the forced avoidance they had built between them. He immediately clings to Sherlock to spend his free time now that they have all evenings free.

It's always a pleasure to be with John, of course. Now that he doesn't know where to stand with Victor, and he honestly doesn't have much assurance on that front considering he doesn't have much to give to anyone, he can go back to considering his own feelings for John.

Being someone that struggles to form attachment with people but can't help but be intense when he does, it was a shock in his system to be torn between two men. He spent years alone after Greg, and then he meets John, who he got along with like a house on fire from the very beginning.

But John had a girlfriend at the time, during the wedding. Sherlock doesn't even remember seeing her, he only knows she didn't last much longer after that. And after her came another, and another, and they didn't stop coming. Sherlock's initial hypothesis was that John was a serial monogamist, but then Bill Murray happened.

This relationship in particular had been an eye-opener for Sherlock. Bill had been _in love_ with John, that was very clear. Whether it was reciprocal he can't put his finger on, but John appeared to like him just fine.

And he let Bill fall out of love. He kept ditching the man's attempts to engage by chasing after the friends who hated him, but John insisted on meeting up. It had been quite disturbing watching Bill hold onto John until after there was nothing to salvage about their relationship. Bill stayed, and persisted, but by the end he wasn't even angry at John, as he had no sort of feelings about him.

The queue never stops for John. He doesn't cheat, but he doesn't keep. And while Sherlock harboured feelings for him, it's not the type of involvement he wants to get into. Even while remaining friends, and getting closer within each day, the feelings never went away. He's very aware that John is sexually attracted to him (although as to why he can't comprehend), he has been quite obvious in his signals. But that doesn't mean they could work together.

Sherlock gets played by the universe making him meet with Victor Trevor. Throughout his life he had thought romantic feelings happened one at a time. Yet, he had found himself in a situation where his belly still got warm by the intimate proximity he had with John, but his heart fluttered madly when he noticed Victor's plan of wooing him.

Is it possible to be in love with two people at once?

Nevertheless, his predicament shows its face, when the fights between him and Victor began because of his inability to be a normal person with a nice boyfriend. Technically, he already considers himself single, because he doesn't believe Victor didn't just jump off the waggle. The way he spoke, it had been heavily implied that he was happy with Sherlock. But wasn't he the one to propose the break in the first place? Coincidentally when he was fleeing to another continent for a trip Sherlock didn't even know about until it was about to happen?

So he's single, and John wants him to go to France with him in less than three weeks.

'It will cheer you up.' John adds, after he realises Sherlock is astonished into incredulity. 'They say France is gorgeous at this time of the year. They will have gardens for you to play with. You've been so depressed since, you know. A change of scenery will do wonders.'

' _To play with?_ Are you serious?'

'Trust you to focus on the less important part.'

'John,' he starts not knowing where it's going. 'You said yourself that the context of the wedding—’

'Not a wedding.'

'—Is crucial here.' Sherlock overrides his interruption. 'You are avoiding dating so you don't have to explain to someone why you're not taking them there.' It is an extreme measure in Sherlock's opinion, but coming from John, he's not surprised.

'I know,' he looks up to the ceiling as if praying that the solution of his problems will be swept away by the wave of a magic wand. 'But, in the end, it's just a stupid wedding party.'

'Jeanette broke up with you because of it. It doesn't sound a concern out of nothing to me.'

'Right, right, a real date will have connotations, but _you_ ,' and he brandishes a dramatic finger at Sherlock, 'are aware of my position in this. So it shouldn't be a problem.'

He gapes at John, mouth open like a fish until he catches himself and closes it. 'Isn't it a bit weird?' He tries to reorganise his thoughts in order. 'I do admit I'm no expert in what is expected during these kinds of ceremonies, so correct me if I'm wrong, but I don't think coming with your friend as the plus-one is a common move.' He doesn't entonate the question mark, but he does leave it in the lane of open answer.

Since this whole insane conversation started, John finally looks embarrassed. 'Ahn, that, well.' he cleans his throat. 'Youdheevetpseasmadt.'

Sherlock blinks, leaning forward in his seat. 'I'm sorry what was that? Can you not mumble?'

John rolls his eyes, still managing to look nervous. 'You'd have. To pose. As my. Date.'

The silence that follows is heavy, as they stare at each other. This time Sherlock lets his mouth hang open a bit, in a conscious effort to demonstrate what he thinks of it before he finds the correct words. 'You've got to be joking.'

John raises his palms as if placating an angry dog. 'I know how it sounds but hear me out. I RSVPd as two. They expect me to have a date. The accommodation available is for two people per room already. We'd only need to pretend in front of Stella and Ted anyway, and they will be busy most of the time.'

'I see.'

'Do you?'

'I see it's time for me to do something else out of here.'

He's aware he hasn't said yes or no, he thinks while walking on the street in Regent's park direction. But he dismisses it. Surely, John would sit down while he was away from the flat and evaluate how what he's asking isn't possible or reasonable. Perhaps not even necessary. Just cancel one of the guests’ confirmation and deal with it on your own.


	7. Edelweiss

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Come say hi on my tumblr or twitter, although I'm more active on twitter. I talk about my projects and also post links to the songs for each chapter a bit before publishing it.
> 
> Song for the chapter: Stellar - Sting

Apparently it _is_ too much to ask from him, Sherlock finds out.

'John.' he calls, gathering a handful of the material spread over the kitchen table and walking to where John is up a ladder changing a light bulb from the living room. It's been flickering since forever but none of them have made a move to change it. Mrs. Hudson had come upstairs for whatever reason the day before, as she usually does, and complained the blinking lights were going to give them a headache. So they flipped a coin and John ended up being responsible to acquire a new bulb on his way back from work and change it before it was too dark. 'This is forcing my hand already,' he waves the pamphlets at him.

John glanced below at Sherlock, then back to the lamp, fully aware what Sherlock is talking about and taking way more time than needed to do the task. 'I don't know what you mean.' 

_The liar, with a straight face, no mind_. 'Restored Medieval Chateau in Gascony?' Sherlock flips through the pamphlets. 'Tour d'Armagnac, Musée des Jacobins, Port d'Artigue, Montreal dus Gers, Gothic cathedrals, landscapes in Gers including sunflower plantations? Really?'

John watches him with his mouth slightly open, lamp forgotten. He goes on, now opening one of the merchandising adverts. ' _Every inch of this grassy and nature-packed wedding venue spells out a fresh country life that everyone loves about France. From the view of tall grasslands and fresh gardens outside, open spaces on its outskirts with hanging greeneries above, up to the classy innermost rooms of this medieval chateau in Gascony, every portion is genuinely French_.' he recites and finally is fed up enough to toss everything aside, not even checking where it landed. 'What am I supposed to do with this?'

John blinks at some point over his shoulder. 'Trust you to bypass the English names and go straight to French pronunciation.'

'It's written in French, it should be read in French.' he says through gritted teeth. 'And don't try to change the subject.'

'Well, technically...' John starts to descend the ladder, folding it when he gets to the floor. 'It was on the kitchen table.'

'Wow, wonder why.'

John rubs his face with both hands in a quick and short motion, and locks them together in front of his chest in praying position. 'Think of it as a vacation. It seems to be a lovely place, and a couple days away from London is going to be a breath of fresh air that you can't deny we both need.'

'And,' Sherlock raises one finger. 'You want us to pretend to be in a relationship.'

'Yeah, that too. But look! It's just for the ceremony anyway. And a brief talk with Ted and Stella, it's not going to be so bad.'

'Where, according to your own insinuation, they will engage in the wonders of marriage conversation such as trying to convince you to do it, which means I will also be the target of high expectations.'

John grips both Sherlock's forearms, they are very into each other's space right now. 'You'll never see these people again. It doesn't matter. They won't, I don't know, stalk your social media to...'

He arches on eyebrow as high as he can, to get his point across. 'To berate me for ending our fake involvement after their wedding?'

'Yes.' John sighs,releasing him, and heaves the ladder, carrying it back to its owner at 221A. 'It's not that big of a deal, I swear. Can you- can you at least think about it?' he begins to descend down the stairs without waiting for an answer.

Sherlock watches him struggling to maneuver the ladder through the narrow space of the doorway and the staircase after that. Taking the turn from one flight to the other is particularly challenging, but he doesn't go help him. John is probably not even expecting any help, he would just have a heart attack if Sherlock suddenly began being useful in meaningless tasks.

He does make the effort of collecting the scattered pamphlets on the floor. The one he read aloud is from the wedding venue the ceremony is taking place. It's not one of the big touristic castles mostly used by the richest families. He goes past the numerous pictures of chic white and beige bland table arrangements typically used on the occasion to check the gardens. It's mostly grass and trees, barely any flowers in sight except for the odd cowslip that follows the line of the picket white fence. Dull. He has tons of ideas for flower decoration that are usually turned down by the wedding planners and marrying couples who prefer the generic and cliche options. It almost makes him wish for more funerals.

Sherlock plops down on the sofa, skimming through the advertising. Of course, it wouldn't be so bad to travel, as it's something he usually doesn't have the time or inclination to do. One great asset already is that they don't have to go to Paris. Nasty overrated city full of menacing tourists and smells like piss everywhere.

The underlying issue of it all is the fake-relationship thing. It’s obviously a bad idea with anyone, but considering his position regarding John, it becomes unadvisable altogether. Mixed feelings are something Sherlock does not wish upon any soul if this is what is like. Constantly questioning yourself, compromised decision-making, and in the end the nagging sensation in his gut that he will end up in a cold bed, all alone.

It's been one week since he last talked to Victor. The radio silence is mutual, of course, but then Victor was the one to propose the break, so he's unsure any initiative from him would be welcome. He also has no plan of what he would have to tell him. One thing he's certain, is that he misses having someone, as pathetic as it sounds. 

'Sherlock!' John's voice arises a bit muffled from the hallway, but still breathless. 'I feel like one more step and I will slide to my ultimate death, would you mind giving me a hand?'

'Coming!' he answers, putting everything on the coffee table and getting up to save them a trip to A&E. 'Don't move, how do you even do anything?'

Having John's friendship is a comfort and a curse while it lasts.

-*-

Mother's day proximity means the flower shop gets insanely busy. This and Valentine's day are the two more awaited yearly events, since non-creative people keep the business lucrative. Unfortunately, they are almost back-to-back on the UK calendar, and flower seasons are not really forgiving of that.

Bouquets are basically the rule of choice, so Mrs. Hudson always makes sure they are fully stocked with satin papers and strings to prepare them. Thankfully, for Sherlock's sanity, Mother's day is also more flexible on options, unlike Valentine's which needs a near-infinite supply of red and pink roses.

While Mrs. Hudson had told him to present his opinions as mere polite suggestions, he just can't deal with boring bouquets. If he has to make them, at least make it interesting. The clients that end up coming to him because his boss is busy with something also receive quite adamant lectures on flower designs and species. Colour patterns are an important subject for him, and even if he's scolded, Sherlock considers it a win every time someone changes their mind from a repetitive monochromatic bouquet to one of his more intricate works.

Contrary to popular belief, the bigger the better doesn't really work with flowers. Huge flower arrangements end up becoming an amorphous mess, and only truly belong in on the ground of a garden, not at the top of a side-table in some penthouse in London, standing between people who don't really talk to each other but like to maintain the ruse for appearances' sake.

But some people live for appearances' sake. It's quite common for them to sell the most expensive arrangements for some jerk to show off to whomever, or buy their way into goodwill. Sherlock has become an expert in identifying the sort through the years, walking around as if they own the place. He knows after one sentence that this is not the work he will put any creative effort in it. He just pities the poor flowers, knowing they won't be cared for in the proper way, wilting in two days maximum.

Problem is that usually these people come with high demands. They want the best, and it needs to be _now_.

So here comes this gentleman in sunglasses, bypassing the queue at the front to go directly to Mrs. Hudson. Sherlock is at the back, preparing a bouquet for a son in his late teens, and he saw when the man parked illegally. Between the bushes of peonies there's an opening just the right size for Sherlock to see the man. He wants all the Butterfly Amaryllis from the shop.

'I'm really sorry, sir.' Mrs. Hudson says in her talking-to-clients voice. 'This type of Amaryllis are only ordered weeks, sometimes months in advance, depending on the season. They are not an easy bunch.'

'You don't understand.' the man gives one more step, getting way closer than he needs to be. The two women in the queue exchange a look and go walk between the aisles, getting away from the scene. 'My mother loves this flower, and she's dying. Your place as an establishment is to provide to clients. I'm pretty sure that being paid in cash could advance things.'

Mrs. Hudson puts the hand pruner she's holding aside, cleans her hands on her apron. 'That's not possible. You see, you can't really accelerate plant's growth, especially tricky fellas like flow-'

'But I see some there on that aisle.' he points toward the Butterfly Amaryllis vase, smiling with teeth out. 'I can just get it? I pay double.'

He advances to the bushes menacingly, and Mrs. Hudson steps in front of him to block him. 'As I said, they need to be ordered in advance. These already have an owner. We can find something beautiful for your mother, what about som—'

'Get _away_ from me!' the man throws his hand to push her aside, and Sherlock is on him in a second, grabbing his fancy collar.

'You need to leave now.' he informs the man's nose while he thrashes about.

'What the hell?! Get off me you fucking fairy!'

'If you turn around and leave, I will.'

He releases the man's collar, who stumbles a bit but gathers himself up. For one moment it does seem like he's leaving, but then he throws himself forward to punch Sherlock in the face. His technique is obviously non-existent as he aims for the wrong areas of Sherlock's face, who is taken by surprise and therefore can't avoid the blow, but he has a large ring, and Sherlock can feel its impact more than the knuckles on his skin.

The force makes him stagger two steps behind, but before the pain can reach his conscience he drops his height so he can lunge forward, hitting the man at the hips, unbalancing him. The man drops to the floor on his back. 

'Hey!'

The security guard from a nearby store runs to them and helps Sherlock immobilise the man. Turns out the two women previously in the queue had run to call him as soon as the man attacked. Together, they toss him out on the street, and the man beats a hasty retreat in his car. Khalil, the security guard, makes a point of taking note of the man's licence plate, and tells them that the CCTV at the store he works has probably captured the man's face, due to its position, in case he comes back.

Mrs. Hudson fusses over Sherlock a bit, but besides a cut to his upper brow and the pain that started to appear on the spot, he's fine. They are taking a small break to eat some biscuits when John sends him a message. It's a link for a restaurant's website. It's situated close to the wedding venue in Auch, although this particular information Sherlock found out for himself, as it was suspiciously missing. The restaurant's menu appeals entirely to Sherlock's taste in food, of course.

It's the rolling eyes movement that calls her attention. 'We'll go back now, if you're finished bickering with your boyfriend, dear.' she tells him playfully with a mischievous twinkle in her eye.

He swallows. 'It's not Victor. We… are not really together for now.'

She frowns in confusion. 'For now?'

'It's complicated.' he sighs. 'Worse than that is John trying to get me to go to France with him because he doesn't want to take a date or something.'

'That's one of his silly issues with girlfriends, isn't it?' she tuts, going around the counter to sit at the cashier register.

He reclines over the counter with his elbows at his back. 'When is it not?' he says looking up at the ceiling. His left eye has started to hurt and he moves it in its socket. Just what he needed.

'I feel...' she starts and cuts herself off, clearly hesitant to speak her mind. 'I mean, professional help tends to work on these issues, isn't it?'

That makes Sherlock snort. 'Like he ever would do that.' he picks up a pair of gardening scissors that fell on the floor. 'The day is not over. I'll go back to the marguerites.'

'Sure. And, Sherlock?' 

'Yes?' he asks without looking back, already walking to his hiding place.

'You're taking care of yourself, aren't you?'

For a split moment he thinks she means his brow cut, but looking at her stern face and adding the context of the conversation, he realises she's talking about something else. He looks to the side and back to the vase of marguerites in front of him. 'I'm trying.' is the most honest response he can manage.

-*-

They are discussing it. Properly. Sherlock cannot fathom the causal chain that made him agree to take John's proposal seriously, but here they are, sitting on their customary armchairs in front of the fireplace, ready to spell out whatever this trip entails. It was finally triggered by Sherlock coming home after being attacked by the customer.

'What the hell happened?' John had asked as soon as he took a look at Sherlock's face. The cut from the ring wasn't deep but it had made an ugly rash on the top of his eyebrow. The skin that had initially turned an angry red became a swollen patch with green undertones before the end of working hours. It will probably darken into black and purple by the day after.

John had sat him on the closed toilet lid after much insistence, ignoring Sherlock's dismissal. They have a first aid kit at all times in the cabinet under the sink with some basic stuff. The cut hadn't been bleeding anymore when he got home, but it was still open. John used a cloth soaked in saline solution to clean it while Sherlock explained what had happened earlier.

Being hit right up in the face meant he had to tip his head back for John to be able to see it. It had felt weird having John so close to his face, especially when gazing up at him at the unfamiliar angle. Even if Sherlock had been motionless while he needlessly tended to the wound, John had kept a hand holding gently the side of his jaw. 

The moment that had struck Sherlock the most was when John lowered his gaze from his eyebrow to his eyes. While it's true that personal space was always a tricky concept between them, this level of proximity had been unprecedented up until now. They haven't said anything for long moments, while Sherlock silently waited for his stomach to go back from its free fall.

'It depends on the light.' John had murmured out of a sudden.

He had frowned. 'What?'

'Your eyes.' John had raised his voice a little bit so he was talking in a normal volume again. 'Most of the time they are shades of grey and beige. When the right light hits, they are fully blue.'

'Some people say it gets green under the sun.' 

'Well, I wouldn't know. Your brow looks blueish to me. It's done by the way.'

He had instinctively touched the place, only to have his hand swapped by John. 'You don't want to get it infected. Are you up to date on your tetanus jab?'

'Yes.'

'Right.' John had nodded to himself, then shook his head and moved to put back the kit in place. 'I was going to ask if you had seen my message when you arrived, but, well, nevermind.'

Sherlock had sighed and on a whim standed up from the toilet. 'Ok. Let's talk about this. Living room.'

John seems strangely nervous now, fidgeting in his place, as Sherlock takes his seat in front of him.

'So. What exactly would you want me to do?'

He can see John's throat working before answering. 'The ceremony happens on Sunday afternoon. I scheduled a dinner with Ted and Stella on Saturday. These are the only two times you'd have to pretend, and it's mostly so we can bypass the talk without any hurt feelings or expectations. We go back to normal after that.'

'Don't you think they are going to suspect everything is off?'

John shrugs. 'I don't think so. I've barely seen them since they moved to Lyon after getting married, it's not like they know how I roll in relationships. They've met some of them-'

Sherlock snorts loudly at the "some of them", warranting a dirty look from John. Only him can be so nonchalant about his revolving doors of relationships.

'I see.' he purses his lips, trying to gather all the necessary details in his mind when a thought seizes him. 'How do you intend to travel there?'

John groans, throwing his head back, as Sherlock expected. This will be a sensitive issue. 'If we can avoid the Eurostar I swear-'

'John. I _don't_ travel Ryanair or EasyJet. You know that.'

'Ugh, just this time? I can't pay for other airline, the trip will be already a stretch-'

'I can't even fit on those seats!'

'Why are you so bloody tall-'

'And airports consume more of your time and energy than anything else which compensates the quicker travel, and you are aware of the luggage problem-'

'My reaction is not something I can control-'

'I am the one doing a favour here!'

'Ok, OK!' John stops him, raising placating palms. 'How about we compromise? We could go by train and take a flight back.'

He frowns. 'Doesn't it make more sense to do the opposite? We could bring more weight with us when coming back.'

'Yes, but we can take the night train on Friday to get there early and enjoy the whole weekend, knowing an early flight on Monday will be quicker to get us home to go to work if possible.'

Sherlock mulls this over. It's a good compromise, he supposes. It's just one weekend and probably one or two awkward conversations with his friends. If it wasn't important John wouldn't be practically begging, would he? He exhales, making a decision.

'Fine. We will do this.'

John widens his eyes. 'Are you sure?'

'Yes. But _don't_ expect me to do it again.'

John smiles ecstatic at him and they both get up, intending to go on with their respective business, settling down for the night. Before Sherlock can move away, John holds his arm, then puts his hands over Sherlock's ears, pulling him down for a lingering kiss on the forehead. 'Thank you, Sherlock. I mean it.'

Sherlock lets John turn his back to him before briefly touching the spot with his fingertips. He removes his hand quickly when he realises what he's doing, and goes take a shower to retire for the evening.


	8. Lavender

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Come say hi on my tumblr or twitter, although I'm more active on twitter. I talk about my projects and also post links to the songs for each chapter a bit before publishing it.
> 
> I just realised I've been putting the wrong link to my tumblr all this time (((:
> 
> Also, chapter a bit shorter than usual.
> 
> Song: Oh my girl - Closer

The final two weeks building up to the big event go flying by. John still can’t believe Sherlock agreed to this, but he's not about to look a gift horse in the mouth, even if said horse took a lot of convincing to come his way. On Friday they come directly home from after work to at least take a shower and collect their belongings, as they are getting the train to France.

John had prepared his bag the night before. He had been counting on Sherlock to do that too, but it's never that simple with him. While he waits in the living room, watching the telly to pass the time, Sherlock goes back and forth with his small suitcase, taking and adding things, and reorganising the disposition inside. John has the feeling that the preparation ritual has started for a week already.

During the whole day, he has tried to avoid thinking about this first part of the trip where they go under the sea in the Eurotunnel, but now that he has nothing to do except make sure Sherlock hurries up so they don't lose the train, he starts to freak out a bit. He takes his phone out to distract himself, opening Instagram. Another picture of Andy taken from a balcony that John knows is from Gordon's flat. He likes the post and closes the app immediately after.

'You're sure you have your suit?' Sherlock's voice comes from the hallway.

'Pretty sure.'

'Do you have a spare shirt for the suit?'

'Why, do you need one?'

John receives an eye-roll for saying that aloud. 'Like any clothes of yours would fit me. For you, John!'

He frowns. 'Why would I need a spare shirt?'

Sherlock looks at John as if he has just offended his mother and marches back into the bedroom.

The whole "being on a break" business between Sherlock and Victor is not something John particularly understands. All of John’s breakups have been pretty definitive. Sherlock himself doesn't seem very sure of what's going on, alternating between waiting for his husband to return from war and indulging in being single. Well, at least the Sherlockian version of indulgence, which is very different from John's.

The night John spent with Henry had been… okay, he supposes. Nothing new under the sun when it comes to sex. Granted, it's been almost three years since he has been with a man, but this was nothing like it. Bill Murray had been intense; he had wanted everything John could give, which turned out not to be much. 

Bill Murray… it's far from the proudest moment of John's life. He had seen it, what he meant to Bill, and instead of admitting the disappointing truth to the guy, he had let it roll. Having a boyfriend or girlfriend is pleasant enough until the demands come. But he also never wants to be the bad guy, the one that breaks someone's heart, which means milking a non-functioning relationship to the point of no return.

What is one supposed to do when facing resilience? Bill had wanted to fix John, and had been patient enough. But fixing his own issues, which John admits he does have lots, is a task John ought to do by himself. So the strategy had been to keep acting like a douche and wait for Bill to break up with him. The one thing he refused to do was cheating. It still took a long while for Bill to give up.

After the breakup, John had really wanted to make his point that it was over between the two. In a terrible decision he has regretted ever since, he hooked up with Bill's closest friend, James Sholto. To be quite fair, John had always been attracted to him, and before John ended up in a relationship with Bill, they had shared a drunk kiss once. So, after Bill had found out, he had sent John a mere two-word message: "Piss off" before blocking him everywhere. He has never told Sherlock this part of the story out of pure shame.

He supposes Victor Trevor happening was karma from the universe. True, he and John had had a stupid fight about a completely random topic but had it been was anyone else, John would have made some effort to put all the trivial grudge behind him and make amends. But since Victor wasn't just anyone else, John had kept the resentment in the pettiest of ways since Bill Murray.

It's the one thing John doesn't allow himself to say aloud, or to translate into words in his head. If he does, his whole life can go downhill.

'Right, I'm ready.' Sherlock finally emerges from the bedroom, wheeling the suitcase behind him and a small handbag in the other arm.

John rises, heaving the satchel over his shoulder. 'Did you get your charger?'

'Yes.'

'Did you get your extra charger?'

'Yes!'

'Because I swear to god, Sherlock Holmes, if you make us stop to buy another one…'

'They are right here in the handbag.'

'You're aware the plug sockets are different, right?'

'Do you think I am some kind of idiot? I have travel adapters with me.' he puts the handbag over the suitcase. 'Before we leave, let me see your bag.'

John holds the bag protectively against his chest. 'Why? Aren't we almost late?'

'Because,' Sherlock extends one demanding hand in the direction of the bag, 'you always end up mixing shades.' Obviously Sherlock doesn't respond to the rest of the sentence.

'I am still following the colour index you made on my wardrobe.'

Sherlock doesn't relent, so John surrenders with a sigh and offers the bag up for Sherlock to inspect. He concedes that post-laundry, the clothes do tend to get mixed, but it’s really not that big of a deal. As if proving his point, Sherlock finds he has packed mismatched socks with a triumphant smirk.

At last, they descend the stairs to leave. They are going to Baker St. Station, take the Metropolitan line to King's Cross, and then the overnight Eurostar from St. Pancras station. Sherlock reaches the end of the staircase ahead of John, as usual, so he puts a hand on Sherlock’s shoulder to stop him whileJohn is still two steps above him, making their eyesights level.

He caresses his fingers over Sherlock's neck to hold him by his nape, and moves forward to nuzzle his temple against Sherlock's, who stiffens at once.

'I just want to say thank you, again,’ John murmurs, ‘I know I couldn't ask anybody else.'

Sherlock gently slides his free hand on John's waist. 'You're welcome. Ar-are you trying to acclimatise to the whole fake relationship thing?'

John closes his eyes briefly, taking another step into the warm aura of Sherlock’s body. Is it really just to acclimatise to the whole fake relationship thing?

'Yes.'

The stiffness in Sherlock’s figure eases at once. 'Right.'

The moment lasts for another heartbeat before they part and make their way out of 221.

-*-

They’ve chosen two seats in front of each other with a table in-between on the booking tickets, but the train car was changed last minute due to availability so they have to settle for common side by side chairs in the middle of the carriage. There still are push-up tables attached to the back of the seats in front of them and power plugs beside them. 

Another quibble they haven't prepared for is the seat assignment. John doesn't want to sit next to the window submitted to the view, especially during the Channel Tunnel part of the trip. Sherlock also doesn't want to be trapped against the wall, as he will have more leg room if he can use the corridor side.

'Oi, lovebirds! Just get over it and sit!' a grumpy teenager snaps behind them.

John starts to turn, but Sherlock just pushes his shoulder before he completes the move. 'Ignore it. Take the window and we can change seats right before the tunnel, come on.'

'Listen to your husband!'

Sherlock just rolls his eyes in response, although John makes a point of narrowing his eyes at the boy passing by them on the way to the back of the car.

As they depart, John slumps against the wall, apparently content with doing nothing. Sherlock guesses he will try to get some sleep, since they will have to do it at intervals. The second train from Paris to Toulouse will take longer, so Sherlock is planning to get some rest during that leg of the journey. 

But he’s not sure if he’ll manage much rest with a certain text occupying much of his attention:

**Received  
I find myself missing you. VT**

The first time Sherlock saw the text, he almost dropped his phone into a pot plant. After almost a month of radio silence, Victor has contacted again. Sherlock isn’t sure if he’s already back in London so his only response had been that he was about to travel, and would return on Monday. No reply came after that, and he doesn't know what it means, hence he opts not to dwell on it.

-*-

He soon gets bored, and tries a design app he's been poking on for a few days now. He can play with layers and real flower pictures to come up with new arrangement ideas. He's been toying with party colour palettes, and how to make the small table vases stand out and fit in at the same time. Upon seeing it, John had informed him the thing was an eyesore, but John is not the best judge for these things.

He's too distracted to realise how long it’s been since they left St. Pancras' station, so he gives a start when John firmly shakes his shoulder. 'Come on, move. Driver said 5 minutes for us to reach the tunnel.'

John's voice sounds weirdly constricted. Sherlock gets up for them to change positions. Sitting back down, he removes the headphones and lets them hang around his neck. John is staring fixedly at some point of the chair cushion in front of him, swiping his sweaty palms on his jeans. 

Of course, being inside the tunnel just means the windows will go pitch-dark for the next twenty minutes. Sherlock has travelled via Eurostar a few times in the past, so he’s used to this. For John however, the mere knowledge that they are under the sea, completely locked up, is enough to send him on an anxiety spiral. Sherlock can't relate to this specific issue, but he knows the feeling of being trapped in a situation of great unease and getting mocked for not being able to keep his cool.

He sighs, disconnecting the headphones from the phone and putting it aside to charge. The headphones go over the table. The driver's voice booms on the audio outlet above them, informing they are now in the tunnel.

He looks over John, his throat is visibly working on swallowing a lump, that Sherlock knows has a purely psychological nature. His underarms were drenching with sweat, and beads were forming on his hairline and forehead, and at that moment, the impulse to hold his friend and comfort him overwhelms Sherlock 

'Come here,' he says, encircling John’s shoulders with his right arm, cupping John’s head to guide it to his neck. John’s breathing comes in shuddery gasps and his whole figure is as stiff as a stick, including his hands, which are still on his lap, probably not aware of the boundaries in place. Sherlock takes both of them and places them over his own thighs, which are instantly gripped tight as if Sherlock was a piece of log adrift in the ocean John was desperately trying to hold onto to stop himself from sinking.

Twenty minutes can’t pass by long enough, in Sherlock's opinion. It seems as if they have been inside the tunnel forever, and seeing John suffering has never been his intention. He’s never been good at comforting others, so this is an alien role thrust upon him by the circumstances. So, the best he can do is close his eyes against John's soft greying hair, gently massaging his scalp in the way Sherlock likes it to be done to himself. His left hand caresses one of John's arms up and down, hoping he at least feels taken care of.

'I was reading one of the pamphlets you sneaked in,' he murmurs close to John's ear, attempting to distract him from the train engine noise. 'The sunflowers field in Auch, remember? It's truly a marvel that they manage to grow them here, since they are not native to Europe. Like many other botanical goods, they were brought back by traders from the Americas. The good thing about them is their resilience as perennial flowers. Most people only have the typical cartoonish version of a common Helianthus in their minds, but there are many morphological types. The Prairie sunflower has a red middle part instead of yellow or brown. The Jerusalem artichoke has a quite small button, mostly not looking like a sunflower. Red and pink especies are also documented. The strawberry blonde sub-type...'

The monologue goes on and on. One small consolation to Sherlock is that at least John had stopped trembling a while ago. And then, like it never happened, they are in France. They still have the better part of the second half of the trip before arriving in Paris, where they will switch from the Eurostar to a local train line. 

However, the cuddle (call a spade a spade) maintains for a few minutes after that. Perhaps John is still embarrassed, Sherlock mulls. When he finally emerges from Sherlock's arms, the first thing he does is to rummage inside the paper bag he had brought from the station, taking out a small size package of salt and vinegar Walkers and offering them to Sherlock.

Food is not something easy for Sherlock, and he is very much against fast-food and objectionable product combinations. But the one junk trash he is happy to eat is salt and vinegar Walkers, and he knows John favours the despicable prawn cocktail flavour. He blinks and accepts it, gratified that John beams at him when he does. 'Why is Mariah Carey on it?' he asks with a frown.

John snorts, opening a tube of m&m's for himself. 'You'd think someone her level wouldn't be the face of cheap chips.'

Sherlock just shrugs, mouth already full of it. He studies John's face until he looks back at him with a questioning glance. Sherlock lifts his eyebrows, trying to convey "So? Are you ok?". John smiles softly and gives him a slow blink to reassure "Yes.". 

It takes him solid 15 minutes to realise John never removed his left hand from Sherlock's thigh, and then it's only because they have to stand to change seats once more.


	9. Rhododendron

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Come say hi on my tumblr or twitter, although I'm more active on twitter. I talk about my projects and also post links to the songs for each chapter a bit before publishing it.
> 
> Song: HyunA - Babe

It's a five-hour route from Paris to Toulouse after changing trains, where they sleep as well as one could. John is accustomed to closing his eyes and tuning the world out in pretty much any resting position, but Sherlock, who has never been an easy sleeper, to begin with, requires a bit more of comfort and has a somewhat restless night. They choose seats right at the end for this round, so they can at least recline the chairs, and John offers his lap for Sherlock to throw his long legs over, sitting sideways.

It's early Saturday morning when they finally reach the station, and after the hour-and-a-half bus trip to Auch, the need for breakfast drills into John’s head.

The wedding venue is actually a small hotel, fully booked for the guests. John notices Sherlock already giving the location an onceover as they walk through the gardens on the way to the reception. Overnight trips are usually so exhausting, but the fresh spring air of April penetrates through John's senses, making him feel more alert.

He had expected the complete freak-out at the train, just not exactly how it would present itself. The completely surprise element had been Sherlock comforting him. Well, not the act per se, as Sherlock is a much better person than he gives himself credit for, having helped John in hard moments so many times he has lost count.

It had been the intimacy. John had rested his head against Sherlock’s chest, listening to his very real heartbeat, thinking to himself how a creature as marvellous as him can be alive. His body had been completely surrounded by the cocoon he created for them, full of warmth, and Sherlock had suddenly seemed to possess as many arms as an octopus, as John could feel him everywhere, but soft as cotton.

And then he also started talking some nonsense about flowers that John can't recall for the life of him, but the baritone voice had filled John's hearing and dulled his muscles into submission. In a moment where his head was being illogical and terrifying, John had felt safe.

Not a common feature in his relationships, counting on someone to make him feel safe. He's not even sure this had been on the table for any of the girlfriends and boyfriends he ever had. Shalom couldn't even convince him to try the London Aquarium, nevermind an experience like this. It's not something he knows how to deal with, and he's afraid to make it all shatter. It's a fragile feeling he can't put his finger on, and it's still there nevertheless. 

It entails so much, to develop whatever it is, that he prefers to put it on mute.

The reception is empty, expected considering most people are probably arriving in the afternoon. One older man that looks like the host is speaking so quick in French over the phone that John almost gulps. If he needs to use the local language exclusively to survive the next two days, he will be entirely dependent on Sherlock, who speaks like a native, of course, that mad bastard.

To his luck, a young boy in the hotel uniform is waiting for them, and he speaks English perfectly well. 'John Watson, ok, just a minute...'

He waits a bit for the old computer to give his reservation info. 'Ah, there it is—room number 17. I'm afraid we couldn't make it a double room, Mr Watson, the only double room available had a shared bathroom, and you specified very clearly against that option. But if you want, we can just remove the bedside table and push the two beds together. 

'Ah,' he collects the key card, feeling out of balance for a moment. 'Ok. Not, it's fine, thanks.'

Sherlock had been utterly uninterested in the whole conversation, preferring to check on the surroundings of the room, but as soon as John moves, he follows him.

The room is lovely. They are a bit far from the reception, on the first floor. The two single beds are both positioned against their respective walls on the right of the door, and a small bedside table stands between them. On the other side of the room, there's a window with a side-view to the arch of the small castle, where some people are taking pictures. The en-suite door stays at his left as entering the room, with a closet door right beside it.

Sherlock immediately throws his handbag over the closest bed and goes to inspect the power outlets beside the table. There hadn't been a power plug on the bus, and he had been complaining the whole time, so John knew he would put his phone to charge as soon as they got to the room.

He hovers awkwardly by the door, looking at the two beds. It's not a big deal, really. He snaps out of his trance to deposit his bag into the closet. The only thing he unpacks is the suit, which will need to unwrinkle from the trip. He knows Sherlock will occupy the whole closet by himself anyway

'What's bothering you?'

John looks over at Sherlock, who is sitting on the bed, thumbing on his plugged phone. It had been pinging with notifications during the bus until Sherlock put it on silent mode.

'Nothing.'

That elicits an eye roll from Sherlock, followed by Sherlock putting his phone down on the table, his intense eyes focusing on John, narrowed in annoyance. 'Let's not do that. Is it the beds? Nobody will look inside the room, John.'

He looks away, stepping closer to the window. The castle arch is really a sight. Probably couples do photoshoots all the time with it in the background. 'It just feels like… a relationship doomed to fail, if you are already sleeping in separate beds.'

Out of the blue, Sherlock is right there next to him.

'If a relationship fails because of sleeping habits, then it probably was never that solid,' he remarks sardonically, making John grit his teeth even if it's a reasonable point. 'Many people prefer having their own space at night. If everyone is sleeping better, the less likely it is for the couple to be in a sour mood that leads to unnecessary arguments.'

'Put a lot of thought into it, didn't you?'

'Not really.' and he moves to the door. 'But I'm hungry and you're moping over there. Let's have the once-in-a-while hotel breakfast.'

'I'll stuff my face with pain au chocolat,' John warns him playfully, and the matching smile he receives makes it a win.

-*-

Religion is not a high priority interest for any of them, and yet Catholicism's aesthetic architecture instigates their curiosity. That being said, John and Sherlock both agree on a very touristic choice of sight-seeing, the Auch Cathedral. Mixing gothic and Renaissance construction features, the building is a magnificent sight for the eyes. They take their time walking around, appreciating the uncountable motifs in the canopy and mosaic windows.

To Sherlock's dismay, John has his phone ready to take pictures of basically everything. He prefers to stick to his visual memory. One thing he did remember to bring was his sketch notebook. While John tries to enter every single choir stall, Sherlock sits at the service benches and tries to imagine a huge parasite flower bush taking over the cathedral if the building were abandoned.

English ivy is the more likely option, considering its aggressive nature and quick spread, but it would just reflect a lack of imagination. Japanese honeysuckles would fit right in, being an invasive species that also give contrast to the dark interior, and they complement the mosaic windows' vibrant colours. Isn't it fascinating that the general art theme in churches is suffering and pain, instead of the joy of adoration? Yet, bright red, blue and yellow-tinted glasses are the choices to portray the tormenting scenes. A dash of sweet peas vining through the window sills to catch sunlight while being in the shade is exactly what it needs.

_click_

He blinks and turns his head in the direction of the distinctive sound. John takes another picture of his face with the phone before Sherlock can do anything about it. There's a hint of a smile tugging at the corners of his thin lips.

'You know I don't like pictures,' he says cooly, and John gets up from his kneeling position, pocketing his phone. 

'Perfectly aware. But I'm not putting it online.'

Sherlock arches an eyebrow. 'Is it for your personal archive, then?' He asks, letting sarcasm drip into his tone.

John doesn't buy the quarrel, sitting beside him and looking quite content. 'Yep. You should always keep memories.'

'My brain is highly efficient on that functionality.'

'For now. You'll never know what will happen decades in the future.'

'Are you saying I'll become a decrepit old person?'

'Who knows?' He spreads his arms behind him over the bench, trying to look over Sherlock's shoulder at the drawing. 'You can finish that if you want, before we leave.'

He closes the book and puts it back on his satchel. 'It's fine, let's go.'

As John walks in front of him, Sherlock pulls his own phone to check the notification that he had felt a while ago. He had set his phone on vibrate when they left the hotel, due to the increasing number of messages from Victor, who realised Sherlock has signal again.

**received  
I hope you are not angry at me. VT**

**received  
I spent the last few weeks trying to parse why we hit this low. VT**

**received  
Are you amenable to talk about it? How can I make this more comfortable? VT**

**received  
I don't think we should end like this, without trying to get better. VT**

A discussion that seems to go in circles is extremely frustrating and quite out of Sherlock's realm of understanding. Wasn't the original problem an incompatibility on their tolerable levels of talking about their relationship issues? 

One thing that always seems to bother Victor is that Sherlock keeps his phone at bay all the time. He's not the kind of person that lets his mind wander, and if he tries to do one thing at a time, he will get terribly distracted. Multitasking is truly an optimal strategy for this issue, one that also supplies his constant need for mental stimulation. But explaining that to Victor is equivalent to opening a can of worms, and a completely avoidable situation.

His phone stays on him, period. Yes, he will check on it even if he's spending time with Victor, who hates the habit. It becomes a vicious cycle: Victor gets annoyed at Sherlock not paying full attention to him, asks that Sherlock put away his phone, Sherlock gets upset because he doesn't want that - unnecessary, he _is_ listening to Victor, and then Victor gets hurt because Sherlock is upset, then Sherlock feels guilty for having hurt Victor but still unwilling to break into details.

It's exhausting.

The messages are left on read, but Victor will know he is reading them. He had made it clear that he was unavailable for the weekend, and Victor is polite enough not to push when explicitly told off. 

Sherlock will answer him when he has the appropriate answers. When his feelings on the matter are sorted out. For now, he will enjoy this one-off vacation.

Besides, being with John is a much more simple affair.

Next stop is the Tour d'Armagnac right beside the cathedral. The tower can be seen from a distance, considering there aren't many buildings that are as tall in such a small town. While it serves its function some centuries later, initially it was supposed to be a prison, but ended up being turned into a warehouse for religious archives since there was a lack of offenders.

Sherlock is fascinated by the prison bit but disappointed that it barely worked as such. John shushes him when he utters that, what with being close to a group of religious old ladies that looked judgmental.

He points out that the combo of old ladies and Catholicism could result in nothing but judgmentalism, but John simply hands him a bar of hazelnut Côte D'Or and guides him away with a hand at the small of his back.

On the ground floor of the Tour d'Armagnac is situated the Musée du Trésor de la Cathédrale. John wants to go in; Sherlock is not interested. He thinks he's seen enough of religious mementoes for the day, thank you very much. He ends up giving in to John's insistence.

As John had argued, there are at least two hundred paintings, sculptures and other miscellaneous items to see at the museum. However, as Sherlock's counterpoint had been, it gets old after the first ten pieces. John is more strong-willed (or stubborn) than he seems, but even he endures only so much devotional art and interactional videos.

The message notifications never stop coming, and it's evident to him that Victor is doing this on purpose because he knows Sherlock wouldn't ignore his phone for too long, so they are promptly checked out while John watches a video on the restoration of the cathedral.

'I'm bored, let's leave.'

Sherlock looks up from his phone, not having noticed him coming closer once again. John is already guiding him to the door by holding onto his elbow.

'I told you so.'

'Yeah, yeah, you win this one. Let's go. I'm getting hungry.'

Since it's late morning already they decide to go to the Marché Traditionelle at the foot of the cathedral before it closes and have lunch in the form of small bites of food at the stalls. Blood orange and raspberries are the fruits of the season. They eat some, and it's fresh and juicy, nothing that can be bought somewhere like Tesco.

The stalls for cheese and wine are strategically located next to each other, and both offer free samples, in which they indulge themselves thoroughly. They do buy a bottle of nice wine together to take home. The pastries are the most tempting items of the market, and Sherlock makes sure to try the cannelés, while John opts for éclairs. 

The most famous local product is the _foie gras_. It's slightly out of season, being the most fresh produced between November and March, but Sherlock still wants to buy some, which leads them to another spat.

'You don't _have_ to eat this, you know.' John pleads. 'It's honestly so unnecessary that this even exists.'

'But it exists! I'm not the one responsible for that, and me not eating it won't make any difference for the demand-offer market. Why shouldn't I enjoy it?'

'It's extremely cruel! I saw a video of what they do to the ducks; it's disgusting, and it would be preferable just to give the poor animal a clean death at once.'

'But that's illogical; it's already dead, I can't change it.'

'You can avoid contributing to its consumption.'

'You are the one who has a problem with it, not me.'

' _Allez-vous l'acheter_?'

They stare at each other, both trying to change the other’s mind. Sherlock knows John doesn’t understand what the vendor said, but he probably inferred. John crosses his arms over his chest, unwilling to concede his ground. Sherlock looks away to roll his eyes.

' _Non, merci beaucoup_.'

The pleased feeling emanating from John is contagious, Sherlock has to admit.

It's so different from his fights with Victor.

-*-

After being refuelled by food, the afternoon is reserved for outdoor activities as the weather grows pleasant. Warmth reflects off of the stone pavement when the sun hits, and the quasi-Mediterranean breeze is cool due to the proximity to the west coast of France. 

So, John and Sherlock proceed to the Escalier Monumental, a huge neo-Renaissance staircase that connects the lower and upper parts of the city. A statue of Charles de Batz-Castelmore d’Artagnan, a real musketeer from the 17th century that inspired Alexandre Dumas, is the centre of touristic attention, attracting a lot of people searching for a picture with it.

Of course, the book reference flies directly over Sherlock's head, who never heard of such a thing. At this point, John is not even surprised by it, but he does manage to sneak a shot of Sherlock looking at the statue in chagrin, which ends up way better than the church one thanks to the natural lighting.

Since they came from the Tour d'Armagnac by the riverside, they have to go up the stairs instead of down - the direction that most people are going. It's three hundred seventy-four steps in total.

'What?' Sherlock asks with a derisive smile. 'It's too much for your old age?'

'Seven years is _barely_ a notable difference after thirty,' John counters smartly, but he doesn't comment on his usual sedentary lifestyle weighing on his knees as they make their way to the first terrace. Sherlock doesn't need this ammunition. John doesn't see His Highness doing regular exercises either; how the hell is he so fit? Unless he's faking it by dying inside.

In total, there are three terraces spread near the flights of stairs, where they can find gardens and fountains. John is more than happy to sit on the grass to catch his breath while Sherlock uses the moment to pull out his sketch notebook and make more drawings. The surroundings are full of inspiration in the form of blooming apple and almond trees, and the bright yellow Forsythia shrub. The bottom of the fountain has patches of green from the moss. Peeking into the notebook, John can see that Sherlock is redesigning the fountain with an arbor over it.

Sherlock moves a bit into the light, as his hunching over the notebook casts shadows over the pages. The change of position causes a ray of sunshine peeking from between the trees to land right on his face.

Sherlock’s eyes change colour all the time. Of course, John is aware that he sees them differently from most people, but it doesn't matter. It's astonishing, the sun hits the left side of the angular face, making that iris lighter than the other one, still in the shadow. The brown dot that tints the right eye just makes it even more surreal.

After the church, John puts his phone on silent mode so Sherlock can't hear the snaps of the camera, and John takes advantage of it by clicking way too many pictures of Sherlock than he’d have allowed had he been aware. The nature environment they are in now makes a lovely background for the photos. Sherlock is almost a nymph in a garden, something John would never dare to say aloud.

When he is finally satisfied with his drawings, John helps him up. Just as they are turning to leave the terrace, he sees Sherlock thumbing on his phone for the millionth time.

'What are you checking so much over there?' he asks playfully, even if it stings at him a bit.

'Don't know what you're talking about,' and Sherlock pockets the phone once more.

As they have practically climbed up to the village, they trek just a bit more to reach the Chatêau de Lavardens, used to protect the villagers from the plague and currently transformed into an exhibition hall.

Sherlock scoffs at the lack of proper gardening, since the outbuildings are completely grass fields. John has learned through rants along the time that grass is a non-sustainable environment that requires excessive effort to maintain, doesn't allow fauna and flora diversity, and most importantly, is aesthetically bland. Sherlock made a grass-hater out of him.

The coolest part of the castle is the whispering room. The acoustics allow whispers to be heard from any part of the room. They test by standing each at opposite corners, checking the lowest volume at which they can hear each other whisper.

' _Bodies are actually room temperature, they only get cold because they are kept in the fridge_.' he tries. Sherlock's snickers sound like he's right at John's ear as John says that. ' _Frozen bodies are way quicker to cremate, actually, because of lack of tissue._ '

' _Everybody eventually turns green after dying is one of my favourite death facts._ ' Sherlock adds. 

There are a few other people in the room, but they leave pretty quickly as they start to do their thing. John tries very hard to contain a snort.

' _Do you think a murder could happen at the wedding?_ ' 

' _Don't make me dream, John._ '

It's his turn to cover his mouth with a palm, Sherlock making John's job harder by reclining against the wall and giggling to the ceiling. John takes his hand away from his face, still looking at Sherlock on the other side of the room, feeling bold out of a sudden.

John whispers from the bottom of his heart, quiet but desperate, his voice so low that his words might as well be as soft as a puff of breath.

Sherlock puts his chin down, frowning in confusion. 'What was that?'

'Nothing,' he replies in a normal voice again, relieved and disappointed in equal parts. 'Ready to go?'

Evening approaches quickly. They haven't taken a shower since the night before, considering the long trip on the way here. So, they decide to return to the hotel for recuperation before the scheduled dinner with Stella and Ted, strolling along the Promenade Claude-Desbons on the way back. The sunset over the trees and the joggers makes the walk gorgeous and appealing.

John takes this time to keep his heartbeat in check.


	10. Chrysanthemum

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Come say hi on my tumblr or twitter, although I'm more active on twitter. I talk about my projects and also post links to the songs for each chapter a bit before publishing it.
> 
> Song: GFriend - Summer Rain

La Table D'Oste is a small and cosy restaurant somewhere downtown. It’s part of the Les Tables du Gers initiative, where restaurants can get labelled as La Table if they follow a strict criteria: using locally purchased fresh ingredients, and changing the menu according to the seasons as per the availability of fruits and vegetables, thus having a positive impact on the taste of meals.

Their meeting is scheduled for seven-thirty evening, right when the house opens for the night clients. They arrive a few minutes before, finally scrubbed and changed, free from the remaining travel sudor sticking to their skin. 

They are waiting on the entrance porch, reclining against the charming wooden rails, when a voice announces the arrival of their company.

'But if it isn't John Watson!'

Sherlock stays put to the side, watching as John skips the two little steps of the porch to the pavement with a huge grin, and hugs Ted Coram tightly. The two men slap each other's backs, making Sherlock wince. This type of "manly" embrace is not one he favours himself, and he certainly hasn't done it with any of his friends. Absolutely not with John.

'Look at you, sport!' Ted grips the back of John's head. 'You grew up a bit since I last saw you.'

'Right, fuck off!' John delivers his response with a playful punch to Ted’s shoulder and a step back. 'At least I'm not the one with a receding hairline. Where is it going by the way, to visit your wife?'

Ted leans over in a loud fake whisper. 'I can fix my hairline. In fact there are some pills I've been researching-'

'My husband is hilarious.' Stella says almost sarcastically from behind Ted, but Sherlock notices she's smiling as if she truly finds them funny, which diminishes the effect. 'You are not taking any pills, babe.'

'As always, Stella.' John steps closer to hug her too, and while it's less enthusiastic, it seems genuine. 'Come on in, then. This is Sherlock Holmes.'

The couple step forward looking for all the world like they intend to give him a hug too, or air kisses, so Sherlock sticks out a hand to shake preemptively and keep them at arm's length. They don't seem to mind, in Sherlock's opinion, and he is aware of the curiosity sweeping over them as they study him.

'You might be familiar with him.' John explains. 'He was the florist at your wedding.'

'Oh, that's right!' She exclaims, beaming and sliding her arm around Ted's waist. 'I knew I remembered you! I never caught your name. What you did to the reception hall was beautiful, by the way. The pictures came out amazing!'

'Thank you.' 

'So romantic, isn't it?' Stella mellows her voice, and while she's not doing the "aaw", her face conveys it for her. 'Meeting at a wedding!'

Sherlock stays put, while John rests his hand on Sherlock's elbow, plasting a smile. 'Definitely. Let's go in?'

Dinner proceeds smoothly, in Sherlock's opinion. The recommended cassoulet is superb, and the questions aren't as intrusive as he had expected. Stella asks John if he met Sherlock's family (not yet but he intends to, a lie); Ted asks about Sherlock's parents reaction (they don't have any strong opinion about Sherlock's sexuality or love life, definitely a truth). 

They both are interested in knowing when exactly the change between them happened, to which Sherlock and John just look at each other, trying to telepathically coordinate an answer.

'It's hard to pinpoint, to be honest.' John settles for, and Sherlock goes along, nodding to show agreement.

Conversation at last ends up swaying towards catching up and other random matters, to Sherlock's relief, as he can stand back and be an spectator.

'Oh, yes, it reminds me of Keith. He also recently started doing cross fit, and I swear I can't get my head around it.'

Ted raises his eyebrows in astonishment. 'Keith, from high school? Do you still talk to him?'

John falters for one second, subtly taking a sip of the wine, but Sherlock is paying enough attention to him to notice. 'Yeah, sure. And also Mathieu, Gordon, Andy, Jamal… you know the gang.'

'Wow.' Ted lets out an incredulous laugh. 'I think Gordon still sends me private messages on birthdays and Christmas on Facebook, and the others follow me as well on Instagram, but I mostly don't have contact with any of them. After all these years?' he furrows his brow, looking up thoughtfully.

'They are nice people,' John says shortly, probably not realising he's sounding defensive to Sherlock's ears at least, but Ted doesn't seem to spot it.

'Of course, they are. Or were, I wouldn't know,' he chews on a bit of cassoulet, points a fork at John while nodding at Stella for validation. 'But we probably have nothing in common anymore. It's natural to happen, isn't it?'

John doesn't answer, choosing to focus on his food. Sherlock is at a loss of what to do, so he follows John's lead in fixating mostly in finishing the meal.

'Someone I still talk to from time to time is Tim.'

If behavioural clues could turn on a bright siren to the careful observer, it would be this. John's shoulders hunch into themselves, and his neck almost disappears from tension. He is trying not to make his locked jaw obvious by pretending to chew longer than necessary. Sherlock is right beside him, and has no eyes for anything else at the table, so he picks it up quite easily.

'Oh,' is the only response.

'He is always happy to hear that we are doing well. He stopped fostering after Myrtle died. It would be hard to do it on his own anyway, and one does not get any younger. That's why he wasn't at the wedding, it was right after her passing. He actually gave me a lot of tips, what with having been in a interracial marriage himself for decades. He frequently asks about you. Why do you never call him?'

John shrugs, and doesn't answer. 

A bit of anxiety is starting to cripple onto Sherlock, upon seeing how uncomfortable with the whole conversation John is. He needs to put in practice some good relationship strategies, even if it is for a fake one. Time to change topics.

'I understand you live in Lyon now. You've got a job offer there?'

'Stella did, actually. She is the smart one.' they both laugh at each other, and Sherlock takes the opportunity to steal a glimpse from John, who already seems more relaxed. 'Computer science is an area that recruits people worldwide. We decided that I could look for a job after we got there. Took me six months, but it happened eventually. And it's a good job! I'm almost finished paying my university loan.'

'Living the dream!' John raises his glass to a toast between them, making Sherlock able to breath a little easier.

'So, who is the smart one of the two?' Stella asks with a playful smile.

Before Sherlock can even think what answer is even adequate to this kind of question, John intervenes. 'Sherlock, definitely. His mind is something else, he could have done anything he wanted.'

He feels his lips tugging up at the compliment when his brain catches up with the words. 'Are you going to add "and yet he chose to be a florist" after that?'

'Never.' John turns his torso a bit so they can look at each other face to face. 'Although I could do without dirt with worms in the flat.'

'I was experimenting with the quality of the soil!' he replies, indignant. 'The use of worms improves soil structure, and they process organic material and recycle the contents into nutrients-'

'There were worms in the fridge, Sherlock.' John interrupts, grimacing. 'It's disgusting. And the worst is that you completely forget about the things you are doing mid-way because you got distracted by something more interesting.'

'Excuse me, time is an essential variable for tests, I don't-'

A muffed giggle interrupts his line of thought. They both turn to the couple in front of them, who seem to be trying very hard not to laugh. Stella is the clear culprit of the giggle, as he is biting her lips.

'What?' John asks.

They glance at each other again. 'You bicker like an old married couple already.' Stella explains, voice full of joy. 'It does take a while, but we got there, didn’t we, Ted?'

Ted grins, and pushes away his now empty glass of wine, pulling the complimentary water bottle instead. 'Everytime you present us someone you're dating is so controlled, John. Like you're trying to make a good impression. It was always a bit unnerving.' he addresses Stella once again. 'Do you remember Mary?'

She groans. 'From our wedding? Good lord, I don't know what you saw in her, John, she was so creepy. We were excited for you to settle down, but I thought to myself that certainly it couldn't be with her.'

'Tell me about it.' John mutters, still going for the wine.

'Perhaps Sherlock is The One, uhm?' Ted adds with a smile and wink. A wink! Sherlock restrains a groan; the conversation has gone completely off the rails. 'You've never been the type for big ceremonies like we did, but I would go back to London even if you just go to a courthouse, be warned!'

The fake smile plastered on John's face is probably still better than Sherlock's catatonic expression, if he could put the two of them side by side in front of a mirror to compare.

Of course, the night can’t just end like this. Their empty plates are removed to make space for the dessert, a local version of creme brulée flavoured with Floc de Gascogne, a fortified sweet wine made with Armagnac and wine juice. Sherlock gets to it quickly, in retrospect looking like he's trying to make the rest not happen.

'Which would be convenient.' The couple exchange looks again, this time lingering with intention. Stella nods at Ted, who turns to John.

'We've been talking about children.' he drops the bomb. John puts his foot over Sherlock, who almost swallowed creme brulée through the wrong pipe, to stop his fidgeting. 'Me and you, we were thrown from one house to another most of our lives. I keep thinking about all the children who are going through the same, so we want to adopt.'

'That's ah...' John looks at Sherlock briefly, as if attempting support. He will find none except on a conceptual level, as Sherlock has no idea what he has to do with any of this. 'Very good, Ted. I know you always wanted kids. I'm happy that you're going forward with the idea. I think Mike was expecting something like that.'

'We need to get some tips from him.' Stella adds, nonplussed.

'I spent years thinking we would never, you know. It scared me that I couldn't be a good father.' Ted continues. 'But starting therapy helped wonders. All the anger, the feeling of inadequacy… We are sort of bound to it. It changed my world rationalising the stuff, learning how to put it aside. I even think everyone should do therapy.'

John scoffs, licking his spoon. 'Right.'

'We are saying this now because we thought you two could be the godparents.' Stella smiles sweetly.

Sherlock can sense that John is frozen beside him, and his own state is not much different. He had been expecting the inconvenient marriage talk, but this is another entire matter. He did not sign up for this. He tries to keep the panic at bay, and grips John's thigh under the table to beg for a signal of what to do next.

John squeezes the hand, and leaves it there, which means they are both screwed as he also doesn't know the script for this.

'Wow, Ted. I don't even know what to say,' a true but unnecessary statement from John in Sherlock's opinion, 'I mean...'

'We know it's a lot,' Ted overrides at once. 'You can think about it. It's just… I consider you my brother, even if we just met when we were teenagers. I would appreciate having you involved in my family.'

'Of course we don't expect much from what you can give in terms of support for the children. We don't even live in the same country anymore.' Stella complements Ted’s monologue. 'But we thought maintaining the connection was important to us. My sister is going to be the godmother.'

Intellectually, Sherlock understands where this is coming from. They truly seem to be making this to be an emotional bond, more than spreading the responsibilities among their closest friends. That fact that they are considering him a part of the game is still a part of the plan that needs to be revised, but he sees how this can become a positive experience for John.

So he turns to him, expecting to grab his attention. Sure enough, John looks at him immediately. It's too overwhelming to read anything from his expression, so Sherlock doesn't try, he just blinks slowly to signal "yes". John presses his lips together and nods once.

'If it's important to you, it is to me.' John tells Ted. 'I don't think I can contribute much, but I'll be there if your family needs me.'

The couple beam greatly at them.

-*-

Since they came from Lyon by driving and weren't able to stop at the hotel beforehand, Ted and Stella have the car parked around the corner, and give them a lift. John tries to spare Sherlock from the small talk that follows, assuming he must be tired after a whole evening of pretending to be the shy but supportive boyfriend.

To be fair, he did act supportive, and he does get a bit shy in front of strangers when there's no need for him to put up a tough façade. Rewording the situation, he had been the usual distant self when in unknown situations, but a champ in being an anchor for John. The only lie was the boyfriend part.

The conversation had taken unexpected turns that John hadn't prepared for, but having Sherlock by his side made everything easier, surprisingly.

They brush their teeth side by side in front of the sink, change into night wear (pyjamas for Sherlock and a vest and pants for John) and sit on their beds, both trying to push over sleep time as a way of resting their minds after a long day. 

John eyes Sherlock, who has his head buried on his phone. While he definitely checks on it a whole lot, John is surprised it hadn't been more frequent, as the man is attached to it with fervour. He even seems thoughtful with whatever content he's consuming, as he is not scrolling down but his eyes keep moving over the screen, as if reading something over and over again.

It had been a good day. A fantastic day even. John is not used to traveling, as he never has the money or the time. He does go to the beach now and then, and he visited Scotland twice. He has a vague memory of him and Harry in Bath with their parents, but he's not sure if it's real. Everything that happened when they still lived together is a bit of a blur, and he hasn't seen his dad since he was eight, and his mother longer than that.

He can ask Harry, but they are not on speaking terms most of the time anyway.

So walking around and having fun in a great location, under pleasant weather, with one of the dearest persons in the world for him, had worked as a reboot of energies. He had been down for a while now. He's not used to being alone, and in general he conditions his entertainment options to being with company. Dating is the simplest way of knowing you can always count on someone being ready to join you, even if it's not an ideal situation. Relationships usually require way more baggage than just an offer of company.

Preferably his friends would attend to that, but they aren't much available. John understands that the older you get, the harder it is to make everyone's timetable to converge even for two hours a week. Quite a few of them have high demanding jobs, Jamal has children already. It would be nice to have a group chat a bit more active, though.

'You don't like your previous foster parent?'

Sherlock's phone is finally put away on the bedside table, plugged in for the night. John must have been daydreaming enough to not notice that. 'You mean Tim? No, I have nothing against him. He's a nice person. Myrtle was also very kind.'

The silence accompanied by the piercing stare weight heavily from the expectation of a "but". 'I don't like the term foster parent, by the way.' he adds hastily, lifting the covers he's sitting over to put his legs under it. 'They were not my parents. There's no such thing as temporary parents. And this applies to all the others that had me before Tim.'

'Ah.'

He turns to glare at Sherlock. 'What "ah"?'

'Many people struggle to feel attached even if they are adopted. I suppose with a system like fostering the issue is increased.'

He rolls his eyes. 'Of course you'd get all technical about this. Well, yes, it's a way of putting it. It may sound stupid but… If they wanted me to stay, they would have tried to make it a permanent decision, wouldn't they? I don't understand why Tim would expect me to keep in contact. I don't want to. I don't like that Ted tries to convince me to do it.'

Sherlock opens his mouth and closes it immediately after. Hesitation of speaking up is not a typical attitude coming from him. 'Look, if there is anyone I can talk to about this stuff is you. Just say it. I promise I won't bite your head off.'

'Debatable.' Sherlock's throat is bare, as usual, the collar of his pyjama top riding low on the sharp collarbone, making it easier for John to see him swallowing. 'My hypothesis is that Ted has already gotten over the issues he certainly had. He talked about it tonight.'

'He must have talked about it with someone charging him a kidney just to listen to his sob stories.'

'I'm no expert, but I'm sure that's not what therapy is about.'

'If you say so.'

There's a pause and even sideways John can see the engines of Sherlock's head working on what to say next. 'You don't want children.' and John appreciates that they know each other enough that even if this particular topic had never come up, Sherlock made an affirmation instead of a question.

'Not really, no.' he turns on his back, raising an arm to hide it under the pillow. 'You never know what could happen to you. Then you end up with kids alone out there to fend for themselves. Doesn't seem very fair to them.'

'Humanity has survived this far regarding making sure kids grow up safely.'

'Debatable.' John says and Sherlock snorts when he recognises his own words thrown back at him. 'You didn't get to meet Mary, did you?'

'Your girlfriend from four years ago? No,' and now Sherlock’s voice is full of curiosity at the non-sequitur.

'Well. That's the main reason we broke up. She wanted kids. I told her multiple times it wasn't going to happen, but after some time she became so insistent. Right after the wedding we reached a breaking point. I found out she had stopped taking birth control. Even with her on the pill, I was paranoid enough to still use condoms, until one day I caught her in the act of tampering them. Huge fight after that.'

'I'm assuming she didn't get pregnant.'

'Out of luck. I have no idea for how long she had been doing that, and she wouldn't tell me. I insisted on a blood exam to ensure she wasn't. After that she never talked to me again. And I did a vasectomy.'

Sherlock raises his eyebrows. 'Definitive solution.'

'Had to. I was so paranoid that I avoided dating women for a while, not until I had a vasectomy done.'

'You realise this is an important detail that may come up eventually, right? Unless you don't...' he trails off but John guesses he was going to say "unless you don't have a permanent relationship ever", which is definitely out of discussion tonight.

'Yeah, yeah, fine.' he looks away, trying to think of a subject change, then groans while falling back with his head on the pillow. 'Ouch Ted, ouch, I love the guy, but does he have to be so cringy about marriage? What the hell was that about?'

The low rumble of Sherlock's chuckles are followed by the sounds of him also settling under the duvet, and turning off the light. 'Just so you know, I wouldn't give you a discount if you hired me to do the flower arrangements for your wedding.'

He throws his second pillow at Sherlock. 'Great friend you are.'


	11. Honeysuckle

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Come say hi on my tumblr or twitter, although I'm more active on twitter. I talk about my projects and also post links to the songs for each chapter a bit before publishing it.
> 
> Song: Hyomin - Sketch
> 
> Also notice the chapter count went up a bit. I split the next chapter while editing.

If the way up the monumental staircase was a struggle for John, this is pure madness. Since the museum they intend to go only opens at 10:00 and the ceremony will take place in the afternoon - therefore limiting the time they have for sightseeing, Sherlock insists they go visit the Pousterles.

They are long and straight stairways, five in total, and their original construction had the goal of allowing the people who lived atop the hill (Haute-ville) to reach the river quickly. The blessing of water supply systems hadn't arrived in Auch during medieval times, of course, so the availability of water dictated the architecture choices.

While it's fascinating to see this little piece of the past still covered in stone, John definitely didn't wake up with the intention to experience it. In hindsight, he should have made that a verbal agreement with Sherlock, who either doesn’t possess the ability to understand subtext or ignores it on purpose.

So they basically end up going up one of the narrow stairways, even one person at time is shoulder pressed by old noble stone houses on each side. It is so steep that John is considering it an urban hike, and he doesn't even have the appropriate shoes for the trek. He convinces Sherlock to make some stops midway through, for him to rest against the wall and recover his breath. Sherlock uses the meantime for his sketches. He trails in front of John, who hangs right behind him to reduce wind draft. John can see the madman checking on his phone now and then during all the way up.

Yes, he is a bit annoyed by it, but he won't say anything.

At some point they get lost. Well, you can't really say you're lost in such a small town, but as they cruise through the old streets so closed off, Sherlock loses track of their exact location. John can usually guide himself pretty well, but thanks to the physical exertion he was put through he didn't pay too much attention to their route.

'I can find it.'

'Sherlock...'

'It's basically a village, John. If we reach a high place we can see where everything is.'

'Ha! Nope. I'm not going up any more stairs. We can just ask someone for directions.'

'Asking anything to French people?' Sherlock’s tone is more of a sarcastic affirmation than a question, and he moves his neck back in a way that makes him possess around four chins.

'If you are so against it, and considering we don't have a map, _even when I told you we should buy one_ , just open google maps.'

Sherlock sighs theatrically. 'It consumes so much battery.' he basically whines. John knows he will never admit doing such a thing. 'We will go back just to shower and change; there won't be enough time to recharge it before we leave again.'

At that, John smiles triumphantly. 'Well, Sherlock Holmes, today is your lucky day.' he rummages inside his backpack, retrieving the emergency item he had packed to prevent this scenario. 'Ta-dah!'

Sherlock blinks once. Then twice. Reaches out to snatch the portable battery charger out of John’s hands. 'John!' he exclaims in awe, making John's chest puff up in pride at his idea. 'You didn't!'

'Pretty much did. Don't worry about it; you can use it for the ceremony if your phone doesn't have a full battery by then.'

The beam Sherlock gives him is worth the trouble of acquiring the asset and hiding it til the right moment.

Google maps shows the way to the Musée des Jacobins, which contains the second largest hoard of pre-Columbian art in all France. Some ceramic and textiles from Peru and Mexico date from before the Spanish arrived.

'You mean stolen artifacts from the pre-colonisation era.'

'You make it sound so harsh.'

'Don't go all queen and country on me now, John, you know I'm right.'

He is, but John doesn't indulge in this particular debate.

The museum is not too boring for them, and they enjoy their time playing a game of trying to guess the historical meaning of the pieces, but applying wrong answers only. One vase made of terracotta catches their attention. It's shaped like a short man with a rough face, although that is not its most distinctive feature. The man's arms blend into his torso right at the base of, well, its huge penis, which stands right up to his face, with a hole at the tip, so the water from the vase can get out.

'Uhm.' John says quite eloquently.

'Yes.' Sherlock agrees.

'Do you want to go now?'

'Sure.'

John offers his left arm and Sherlock hooks his own on it through the elbow, and together they leave the place. 

For lunch they choose a bistro in downtown. In a single weekend John has seen Sherlock eating (mostly) without complaining once, unprecedented in over three years of acquaintanceship. The man is terribly picky, but will debauch himself with a proper set meal. 

He is glad Sherlock is enjoying himself.

The Maison à Colombage is a four-storey house from the 1400's right in downtown, whose visual is a mix of wood and red brick. Auch's touristic office is now hosted inside, killing two birds with one stone. They offer free maps that show routes for local walks to the rural area of Auch. Obviously, Sherlock refuses to go there to pick one since now he can rely on google maps.

It's the least information heavy part of their vacation tour. Along the way they see some leftover ruins of castles and some cows. Most people that go by them are heading to Accrobranche, a sort of outdoor adventure park with rope swings and monkey bridges, a trademark of rural French destinations, but that is very far from their ideal of leisure time.

Sure enough, they reach one of the sunflowers fields that Sherlock told him about on the train. It's not as orderly as John thought it would be. He lies down on the grass beside Sherlock, who is sitting down with his legs crossed, notebook resting on his knees and sleeves rolled up.

John manages to doze off a bit, what with being exhausted by walking around for hours two days straight. The light cool breeze which can be felt from inside the city produces a whisper as it hits the flowers and feels like a feather massage on his skin. He can swear it brings a low whistle with it.

He wouldn't like to live in a place like this, away from constantly vibrant civilisation, and where everyone knows the neighbour's secrets; but to be able to spend a couple days away from everything must be good for the skin.

Sherlock's presence beside him is soothing and emanates safety, and that's why he's able to close his eyes and just let it go for an hour or so, until it's time for them to go back.

-*-

Luckily they don't have to travel too far from the hotel, as it is where the vow renewal ceremony will take place. As they take the yard walk to their room, they see that the venue has already been set up. Shower is used at turns, and they borrow an iron to press their suits. 

Sherlock is ready, waiting by the window, stealing sneak-peeks of the venue, when John emerges from the bathroom. 

'I'm just happy I won't have any best man duties this time.' he says as he adjusts the buttons of the sleeves, grabbing the suit jacket from where it hangs in the open closet.

Sherlock stares. And he keeps staring.

It takes Sherlock a while to realise that John has noticed his stunned expression and is looking up with wide, concerned eyes. 'What? Don't tell me there's something wrong with the suit; we have no time to fix it.' He even opens the closet door wider to check his reflection in the mirror at the inside of the door.

'Whtiado—hem.' Sherlock clears his throat, as John looks again at him, alarmed. 'What did you do with your hair?'

'Oh, this,' and Sherlock can’t believe John even has the _nerve_ to look sheepish despite looking like _that_ , giving Sherlock what ludicrously sounds like a self-deprecating laugh. 'Your hair always looks so nice, I didn't want to seem like a ragamuffin next to you. After some glasses of champagne people would start questioning what I did to snatch you up.'

Sherlock frowns, trying to understand what in the world is John's point, since he decided to not make any sense. The room also feels smaller somehow. After staying outdoors the whole afternoon his blood pressure must have gone down a notch. 

'I just slicked up with some gel. Really!' 

Well, clearly it had been a good choice, as it had improved John’s whole appearance. Not that there had been anything wrong with it before, quite the opposite in fact, but he has always presented himself as a sixty-year old grandpa. The combination of afternoon suit with properly styled hair makes his face light up.

'It looks very nice,' he offers, and John looks surprised at that, but also pleased. Confidence is usually the key to attractiveness, so Sherlock approves of it.

-*-

The first guests are puttering about when they arrive. It is indeed a small ceremony for the closest friends and family, as John had told him. They are provided champagne as soon as they set foot inside the venue, and John looks satisfied with that. Sherlock's not much for alcohol consumption if not during a meal, but he decides to indulge and follow John's lead.

The tables have small vases of cream cherry blossoms that go along well with the table cloths, and the fabrics hanging from the walls, and the fairy lights waiting for the sunset to be turned on. Everything is white and beige and hatefully bland, as Sherlock had predicted it would be from the pictures in the advertising pamphlet John had got him.

Getting closer, it becomes unmistakable that the flowers are made of silk, which promptly sends Sherlock into a rage.

'Fake! They are fake! Why would someone do that? With artificial they had ample variety to make an interesting colour palette, but they go and choose the most boring decoration available. It's April, they could have at least gone with dandelions instead.' he seethes at John, who coughs a bit mid-rant. 'Cherry blossoms and roses are only chosen because everyone wants the same Instagram pictures. Don't people realise they look the same—?'

'Sh-Sherlock, can you keep your voice down a bit?'

'—obably hashtag forever hashtag aesthetics, whatever that is supposed to mean. They just threw them into the vases, there's no arrangement plan at all, and they are _fake_!'

'Oh my god!’ John pretends not knowing Sherlock and beats a hasty retreat by latching onto the first person passing by, 'Oh hey, Sandy, your sister talked about you yesterday.'

Sherlock ignores John's socialising and starts his own personal hunt for something more cheery in the garden. Hidden in a corner of the picket fence he finds a bush of cowslips. He squats to pluck out a few branches, taking care to preserve the integrity of both the plant and the flower heads.

Nobody is sitting down, as people circulate the venue for drinks and small talk. Sherlock takes the opportunity to buzz on the tables and add the branches to the vases. There's not much to work with, but the fake ( _ugh_ ) greenery serves as a string to tie the branches to the silk cherry blossoms. Better than nothing, he supposes.

'What are you doing?'

An unfamiliar brunette woman in a lilac dress is eyeing him curiously. She doesn't seem reproachful, which already sets her aside from the other people that passed by glaring daggers at his back as if he wouldn't notice.

'Fixing up some things.' he says after a moment's delay thinking of a response that wouldn't offend anyone. John would be angry if he misbehaved tonight.

The woman gets closer, resting her palms on her covered knees to take a look at the table arrangements. 'They do look better.' she concedes with a smile. 'Don't I know you?'

'I live in London.'

'Me too. Were you at their wedding?'

'Not as a guest.' 

She narrows her eyes and he fancies he can see the engines of her brain working towards recognition. 'You're the florist! The one that freaked out when we suggested the bride's bouquet could match the table arrangements!'

'I hardly freaked out-'

'I'm Janine, the chief bridesmaid.' she offers a handshake with a sunny smile. 'You must be Sherlock then, Stella told me you were coming with John, but not that you were doing unpaid work on the decoration.'

'Was it you who suggested the artificial monstrosity for the tables, then, without me to veto it?' he asks, intending to be playful, and he's pleased that he hit it right as Janine barks a laugh. 

'You know what.' she leans in to whisper conspiratorially. 'I kinda agree with you. But most people don't really mind. Their eight years old niece is wearing a paper flower headpiece.'

He shudders. 'The horror.' 

They are still laughing together when John comes up. 'Oh, I was looking for you.' he says, putting his hand on the small of Sherlock's back. 

'Long time no see, John. How are you doing these days?'

John blinks at her. Sherlock realises that, for once, John is the one that doesn't recall a person. 'Ah. Sorry, you are…?'

'Janine. Chief bridesmaid three years ago. We entered the church together.'

'Oh, yeah, of course, sorry, I didn't...'

'It's ok.' she throws a dismissive hand. 'You weren't really paying attention to me anyway. Well, nice meeting you, Sherlock. Tell me if you need any help with the walls next.' she gives him a wink and leaves. He laughs through his nose, feeling the corner of his lips tugging up on their own volition.

John steps in front of him with his brow furrowed. Sherlock raises an eyebrow. 'What?'

'What was that?'

Sherlock looks to the side and up before settling back on John's face. 'I was making conversation. Don't you always tell me to do that? She's quite funny, Janine.'

John's brow doesn't follow most of the muscle's rules, as it moves in ways Sherlock cannot explain, making it super effective in adding nuance to John's expression. It also makes him an easier person to read than most, which has always helped to put Sherlock at ease as how to deal with him. Right now, astonished is a good descriptor.

He opens his mouth to retort god knows what at Sherlock, but is interrupted by the announcement that the ceremony is starting and calling everyone to their seats.

-*-

Vow's renewals usually resemble a wedding in every aspect, but thankfully for them, Stella and Ted have gone for something simple, where they walk the aisle together holding hands instead of making a big entrance. Some people also use the same wedding garments and bridal dress, but Stella is sporting a long fitted sparkly evening gown, in champagne colour.

There are more speeches this time, which makes sense considering the whole goal of the event. Stella's parents talk about welcoming Ted into their family. Her sister Sandy is all emotional about how excited she is to be an aunt in the future. Some other family members speak, to compensate for the glaring lack of relatives on the husband's side. Twilight is approaching, and the married couple want to make their vows against the vermillion backdrop of a setting sun.

At this point John and Sherlock are incredibly bored. Sherlock had been scrolling through his phone from under the table since the beginning, but John nudged him to at least put on a muted video on youtube so they can both watch surreptitiously. 

John insists on replaying the cat falling from a shelf ten times just to mess up with Sherlock.

Finally, the sky starts changing colours, going from the subdued blue to dark orange with strings of purple. The couple step forward, followed closely by the professional photographer, who works to get all angles at the right timing. First, they repeat the vows made four years ago for the wedding. Then, they add new promises of commitment as they search to increase their nuclear family soon.

The one ritual they keep is the ring exchange. Instead of getting new wedding rings, they had their first bands engraved with _Love never fails_. John and Sherlock manage to look up to watch it.

Many sniffs are being suppressed, as people around them tear up, moved by the repetitive procedures.

'Do you think someone will have a fit?' Sherlock whispers, leaning close to John's ear, who bites the inside of his lips to hold back the giggles. 

He elbows Sherlock's midriff playfully. 'Nice reference. I bet you'd be having more fun if it was a funeral.'

'Stella said she appreciated my work.' Sherlock jerks his chin in an old man's direction, sitting some tables over, looking for all the world like he's asleep, or like someone forgot to bury him. 'That uncle of hers looks like he could need it soon.'

John snorts loudly, making some people close by look to glare at him. He tries to feign he's having a coughing fit, doing an apologetic hand gesture as he pulls the champagne glass from the table. It's already room temperature, so he can take only one disgusted sip, but he's hoping the refreshments will start as soon as Ted and Stella finish with the damn talking and just kiss.

'Mine is over.' Sherlock complains with a pout, looking already tipsy for all the world.

'Here, have mine, but it's fucking hot.'

He still drinks gladly. John relaxes against him, shoulders bumping, as they wait for the reception to start.


	12. Goldenrod

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Come say hi on my tumblr or twitter, although I'm more active on twitter. I talk about my projects and also post links to the songs for each chapter a bit before publishing it.
> 
> Song for the chapter: IU - above the time
> 
> This is how I imagine Bill Murray by the way.

'This one is aaaa salmon "mille feuilles" however da fuck you say dat. Y'a like salmon, don't you?'

Oh, that's interesting. Sherlock lunches forward to grab one of the croquettes. 

'It also has cheese in it.'

'Neeevermind.' Sherlock retreats. Even if they are in France, the hosts are British indeed; can't help mixing fish and dairy.

John does get one for himself with a sigh before letting the waiter go away. They won't have full dinner, little finger food aperitifs being offered during reception. John is helping him to sort out what's edible or not, but both their judgments are a bit skewed after so many glasses of good champagne and wine. They are not drunk, but they are happily tipsy, personal guards down.

It's already dark, so the fairy lights and garden lamps are turned on. The ambience is meant to be cosy, which means a lot of secluded shadow corners are available. Sherlock suggests moving the table to one of those, and John agrees, so a task-force is created solely for this goal. The table is surprisingly intact by the end of it, and most of the other guests are so focused on greeting the couple that it makes being inconspicuous a lot easier.

'Mhmf,.' John mumbles eloquently with his mouth full of salmon mille feuilles. 'It'sh been awhile since I ate fish. M'love salmon.'

Sherlock squints his eyes trying to activate his visual memory. 'You ate sardine at lunch on Friday. The kitchen was ssstinky when you were preparing your bag.'

'Oh. Yeah, you right,' then John pauses, looking fixedly at his glass. 'Why did I eat dat? My girlfriend and I were being vegetarianner together.'

'Wait, washn't the previous one the vegetarian?'

John pauses, frowning at him for a few seconds, and closes his eyes groaning. 'Yesh. It was Shalom. Jeanette had a peanut allergy, I think?'

'Nope,' Sherlock pops the p. 'Elyse wash the one with the peanut allergy. Jane wash just… boring.'

'Oh my god,' John folds his arms over the table, burying his head. 'I'm a mess. I can't even tell my exes apart.'

Sherlock taps the hunched shoulder nearest to him. 'Well, at least you're not doing it in front of them. _That_ would be embarrassing.'

The perplexing sound of hysterical giggles erupt from the arms fort. John turns his head just so there's one visible eye up his elbow. 'You know the worsht? I did do it. I told Jane I would walk her dog.'

'... She doesn't even have a dog.'

'Well, I remember dat _now_.'

Sherlock has to take a hold of the hunched shoulder as his muscles seem to lose any strength left due to the roaring laughter. Eventually John comes up again to join him.

'I think that is rather revealing about me, isn't it.' John sobers up, talking seriously. 'They come and go so randomly I can't keep up.'

'But do you care about them?' Sherlock wouldn't be asking this without alcohol burning up his veins, but since John started he will use the opportunity.

'I do. It's just...' John rubs his face hard, pinching the bridge of his nose. 'It's so hard, isn't it? When you are not in tune with what the other person wants. All the attraction in the world won't be enough if the paths we intend to take are different. And it seems I have no talent to find someone who is compatible with me in that sense.'

For Sherlock, this is a rather foreign topic. Attraction is not his primary factor for being interested in someone, although it becomes relevant later. For so long in his life he thought he was wired wrong, as he doesn't display the signs normal people do when interacting with their preferred sex people. He's not sure if what went wrong with Greg and Victor had been compatibility issues, as he mostly didn't expect any of the breakups to happen. Perhaps he's clueless.

'What do you want, then?' he settles for asking. 'How do you see yourself going on, and how would someone else fit in your way?'

John blinks. 'Well, I want- I ahm.'

Sherlock waits patiently. A waiter passes carrying a tray of mini lemon tarts, and he uses the moment to take one for each and let John consider his answer.

'Ugh. You know what. I have no idea. I date because it's nice to date someone. It's pretty good to have someone willing to have sex with you regularly, so I don't need to hunt through London to find a soul available to do that. I don't date with a plan for the future, you know… I-I just want to have a good time with a nice enough person, that’s all. What’s… what’s so wrong with that?'

'Ishn't dat the isshue?' Sherlock says with his mouth full, making John wince. 'Isn't that the issue, since most people at our age have some kind of future plan? They know what they want, but if you don't know how are _they_ going to know?' he grimaces at the repetition of the word, but he's not up to search for mental glossary right now. 'Do you understand what I mean?'

'Surprisingly it makes sense.' John laughs lightly, then bites his bottom lip. 'What do _you_ look forward when you date someone?'

That is an easy one. 'Companionship.' he replies, and John watches his face raptly, which is a bit distracting. He opts for analysing the adapted table arrangements instead. 'I… I get lonely, to be honest. I'm fully aware that my personality is not what people usually look for in a partner, even in a friend or colleague. Hence, I worry a lot that, I don't know, nobody would be interested in staying with me. Sex is something that for me at least it takes a lot of intimacy to get comfortable with, so I don't get any reward from it per se, I can't do it with a stranger. After all these restrictions, I'm left with searching for a man that enjoys being with me. And vice-versa, of course.'

Finally turning back to look at John, he is nodding in acquiescence. 'You seem to have put a lot of thought into it.'

Sherlock shrugs. 'I had to, since most people are not interested in understanding it for me. Once I reached the answer was quite simple.'

'What do you mean, about people?'

'You know, the sex part.'

John smiles, lifting one playful eyebrow. 'Get propositioned a lot, don't you?'

He rolls his eyes. 'I don't even understand why. My physical characteristics are not typically desirable. I think you are a more conventional type in that field.'

'Me?' John turns his chin slightly to the side, neck thrown back. 'Are you honest-to-god saying I'm more attractive than you?'

'I thought that was pretty obvious. You are the one with an endless track record of relationships and dating in general to attest for it.'

'Sherlock, have you looked in the mirror? We have two in the hotel bedroom. We have lots of them back in the flat. Open the selfie mode on your phone, check out your face.'

'Too angular, wrong proportions, these-' he gestures towards his own face. 'Eyes!'

'I'm afraid to ask the next question.'

'What?'

'What is all-' he repeats the hand move that Sherlock made, 'these about your eyes?'

'Ugh, they are too small for my face, too wide apart, I look like an alien-'

'What the hell are you even talking about? Your eyes are fucking amazing! It's one of your best assets! And I don't even see green undertones!'

'People tend to favour light eyes, so your reaction is understandable.'

'Right, you're right, but Sherlock? This is not just about that, trust me. I'm the one who sees your face in 3D ok.'

The whole theme just makes Sherlock uneasy. 

'I really don't want to discuss my appearance.'

'Ok. Ok!' John opens his arms wide. 'Well, fair play, since you were answering a very personal question of mine, now I extend the courtesy. Shoot me up.'

Sherlock stares at him, opting to tread with caution. 'I don't know if I should.'

'Oh my god. Ok, I give you green light.'

'Why did Bill Murray happen?'

It's a terribly phrased sentence, and it leaves a bitter taste in Sherlock’s mouth. The whole thing is such a mark in Sherlock’s mind that he treats it as the Bill Murray case. He means to ask why it happened the way it did, why John let him go so far only to leave him behind if he had no interest in progressing the relationship, why he treated Bill so badly. But while words are not on his side tonight, _Veuve Clicquot_ is, thankfully, and John knows exactly the intention behind the question.

'I try not to think about him too much. But when I do, I ask myself the same thing.'

'Was it a case of him liking you more than you liked him?'

'Why do you say that?'

'... Because that’s what it looked like from the outside.'

'Fair enough.' John sighs, eyes unfocused, mouth pursed in an unhappy line. He starts and stops himself twice before speaking. 'Truth to be told... I don't know. I really liked him, seriously I did. But perhaps… Perhaps he decided to put a lot more at stake than me in that relationship. He easily overlooked my flaws, but I couldn't go past his. He was willing to make sacrifices, and he always tried to compromise in situations, and I was never up to do the same.'

Sherlock thinks about Victor. What if it looked like this from Victor's point of view? Like Sherlock wasn't equating his efforts on the relationship? It made him sad and anxious. He never wanted it to be like that. His feelings for Victor were genuine, despite… everything. Despite John.

He just didn't know how to navigate said feelings. 

'Was he thinking forever, and you weren't sure? Especially after Mary.'

John is thoughtful for a moment. 'Could be. Wait, why especially after Mary?'

'You panicked at the prospect of children at that time. You said you actively avoided dating women until you dealt with that possibility permanently. Children are the one thing that come from relationships that are forever, whether you want or not. When people are serious about relationships, what they mean is that they are thinking long term. After running away from that once, you find it in another place, in another shape. Perhaps your subconscious interpreted it correctly as the same threat.'

'When you say "threat", I feel like a jerk.'

Or emotionally stunted, but Sherlock avoids saying this out aloud.

'I don't know if that was the issue,’ John continues, ‘but it sounds about right. That's very insightful. Do you-' he visibly swallows and looks at Sherlock in the eye. 'Did you want… that? With someone?'

He tries to recollect the point of the conversation. 'That what? Forever?'

John nods, finally picks at his share of the lemon tart that has been sitting on the table, next to his now empty glass of wine. Sherlock adjusts his sitting position to delay his answer.

'Yes. With Greg.'

Keeping it short clearly doesn't work. 'Did you like Greg more than he liked you?'

He wants to make a joke about John throwing his questions back at him, but he doesn't have the heart to find it funny. 'It's hard to measure sentiment. I always felt like we were on the same page in that area. He completely blindsided me. And I couldn't even retort, make a counter-argument on how it was more likely that the forces would give him a harder time by being gay than by having a long-term relationship with someone a decade younger. Most of his superiors are on the verge of grooming teenagers anyway, and I was closer to thirty than not when we met. Which makes me think that there was some underlying issue he wouldn't tell me about, which I don't blame him. I detest having to talk over and over about what's bothering you and whatnot. It's one of the main reasons me and Victor fought over.'

John keeps nodding to show he's listening, and then out of the blue he snorts loudly. 'Didn't expect you to be one of those people that make up for fights with sex.'

Sherlock splutters all over his saliva, making John pats on his back saying "easy, easy". 'What makes you think that?!'

John is still giggling while patting lightly Sherlock's back. 'Well, if you don't like to talk about stuff, that's the usual technique couples resort to. Don't need to get red-cheeked over it, it's just sex and we are both over 30.'

'You more than me.' he makes the point to remark, expecting correctly John flipping off on him. 'I'm not a fan of angry sex or whatever it is that people call it.'

'What _are_ you a fan of, then?' John puts his elbow on the back of the chair to rest his face against his closed fist, a sly smile on.

Sherlock lets out a nervous giggle. 'Are we really entering this territory?'

John spreads his palms up. 'Cards on the table. Oh waiter, more wine, yes, thank you.' he snatches refreshments for them both, and takes a sip. 'So, do you normally enter the territories?'

He facepalms while John smiles showing his teeth. 'For god's sake. I mean, in general no, I'm not the one… doing that.'

'Why, you don't like to top?'

He shrugs. 'It's more practical, I suppose. The two boyfriends I had were older than me, they had more experience, they had the preference. It's logical that they would be in the, ugh, position.'

'See what you did there. But… are you, like, obligated to bottom every time?'

'I'm not obligated. I don't mind, really. I enjoy it even. Positions were never the point for me to appreciate sex.'

'But do you _want_ to top?'

'I just said-'

'Just answer the question, Sherlock.'

'... Yes. I would like, sometimes.'

John turns to sit sideways on the chair, facing forward Sherlock and leaning in with a pointy finger. 'You have to stop letting people walk over you. The break-ups, the sex, it's like you think you never have a say in the matter.'

'Now you're overreaching a little bit.'

'Possibly, and yet here you are wanting to stick your dick in the love of your life.'

'Ouch, crude John.'

John reaches for his glass again. 'You know me.'

'What about you? Top or bottom? I'm aware many men truly only go one way or another.'

'True. Well, I'd say switch, but that doesn't happen frequently. Most people I date end up preferring to bottom. Bill didn't like the other way round. Women are generally set for the default. Except for Elyse, who was a fan of strap-on, I must say.'

They laugh together, John while hiding his face behind his palm. 'I knew she was one of the good ones!'

'Ha, yes, it was fun.' 

Silence follows, but it doesn't last as John breaks it. 'Do you prefer older men?'

Sherlock decides it's time for a crude joke on his own part. 'I already look like a prime twink, I can't date men younger than me or people wouldn't let us into pubs.'

John guffaws, throwing his head back, and Sherlock joins with more timid chuckles.

'You could also change some things in your life, you know.' Sherlock adds cautiously, as he's aware this might be a sensitive topic.

'Like what?'

He sighs. 'Your high school friends, for example.'

'Oh my god, not you too saying I'm obsessed with them.'

'I'm not saying that. It's just… I think you are deluding yourself to not see how they really feel about you.'

'How-' and John narrows his eyes, stance becoming instantly defensive, 'do they feel about me?'

'John. You know I like honesty.'

'Right.'

'They hate you, and you know it.'

John purses his lips, replies nothing. 

'It's not your fault.'

'Perhaps it is.'

'There's no point in dwelling on that.'

'And what do you suggest I do?'

'I can't say anything. It's up to you, and how _you_ feel about the situation.'

John downs back the remaining wine in his glass, and puts it away. A waiter is passing nearby with another tray, but John stops Sherlock when he raises his hand to call for the man to come over. 'It's fine. I don't want to get sloshed.'

He puts his hand back on his lap. 'I'm sorry.' And he hopes John knows he's not talking about alcohol.

'It's ok. You weren't lying.'

Sherlock muses on how to restore the easy camaraderie in place before running his mouth on tender subjects. 'You said you don't know the things you want in a relationship.' he says hastily.

'I did.'

'But that's not quite true, isn't it?' 

John resumes his position of resting head on fist, looking more relaxed already. 'I'm listening.'

'We just need to cross away the things you _don't_ want. To my understanding, those are more clear to you. Elimination process, remember?'

'Sounds good. What do you suggest?'

'Making a list. First: you don't want kids.'

'Correct. Second?'

'Why am I doing all the work here?'

John giggles, finally, breaking the leftover tension. 'Yeah, you're right, sorry. Aaagh, I'll have to get back to you on the list.'

Sherlock snorts at the deception. 'Fine.' he realises he's mentally exhausted, even if the conversation was all in good spirits. He basically exposed his soft underbelly with no backup plan. John probably also feels drained. He peeps on his phone. One new message pops up on his notifications screen.

**received  
We both need to make changes. I'm amenable to that. Are you? VT**

Phone still in hand, he looks away, properly checking out the premises for the first time since the ceremony started. The middle of the venue had opened to a dance floor, and almost all the guests were dancing. He feels his lips wanting to tugg up into a smile. He extends his hand palm up to John. 'Battery.'

Without asking, John deposits it on his hand. He plugs the phone in it and leaves it on the table, getting up next. John looks at him with his brow furrowed, and he offers a hand. 'Let's dance?'

'Ha! Sorry, no. I'm not a dancer.'

'Nobody is.' Sherlock nags further. 'But it's fun, come on, indulge your fake boyfriend.'

'You can keep asking, I'm not going there.'

Sherlock bites the inside of his cheek to hide the disappointment that washes over him. 'Ok. See you later.'


	13. Purple hyacinth

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Come say hi on my tumblr or twitter, although I'm more active on twitter. I talk about my projects and also post links to the songs for each chapter a bit before publishing it.
> 
> Song: LOONA/Jinsoul, Kim Lip - Love Letter

Awareness of Sherlock's love for dancing doesn't make John more willing to follow the man himself. He knows he could have at least stood with Sherlock to accompany him without properly dancing, but there are some things he's not willing to do, and one of them is humiliating himself in front of a crowd. John can tell from Sherlock’s controlled blank face that he must have got a bit upset, but there’s nothing John can really do about it. 

And furthermore, Sherlock doesn't like strangers and he doesn't know anyone else here. He will get shy soon and come back to the table. John was having a wonderful time, even when pouring himself out for Sherlock to see. Alcohol did help with the endeavour, he admits, but this is not something he should be repeating often for his own protection, the heart-to-heart and the drinking.

He thinks back to the previous day, in the whispering room of the Chatêau de Lavardens. He feels like he was sincere to himself, and that's enough. He never meant for Sherlock to hear it, and John's glad he didn't. 

Has he been sincere to the people that passed through his life? 

Mary hadn't been sincere. In fact, it was the opposite, she told lie after lie, from the most important things to the absolutely irrelevant. She would say she didn't change the correction level of her contact lenses when she did. She would tell him about the stroll in the park when she didn't leave the house that day. She would say she didn't talk anymore to people from the nurse school she had studied on, right after meeting them for drinks. She would claim to have bought the bread from the supermarket, when she had baked herself. She would say she had only one can of beer, but John could find three more empty cans in the trash. She would confirm to have taken the pill religiously, when she had stopped for weeks. 

It was hell, and for a long while he had felt like he couldn't escape her, until he did, eventually. They had started sharing an apartment a few months after getting to know each other, a mistake he was sure to never repeat, as he ended up with nothing on him when he left. Almost two years living in a bedsit to recover financially.

Bill was the kind of person that opened up fully, served himself bare for John to see, when he didn't want that at all. It's like this couple of exes were representative of two extremes, and he is uncomfortable with both. Granted, Bill hasn't deserved the cold shoulder for so long, but the guy was so ready to fish positivity out of John that he couldn't take a hint.

Sarah, Elyse, Shalom, Jeanette… They were nice enough people that had taken part of his string of warm relationships after the subsequent typhoons in his life. All of them realised that, of course. Wasn't he sincere to them, in saying how he didn't expect much, that all of them were surprised by him mid-way?

Sherlock had been on the other side of the spectrum, the surprised one. None of his exes were clear enough, or they weren't willing to risk the end of a relationship with an amazing person at the wrong moment, so they kept quiet? Does John fit in any of those roles?

The next procedures are very unclear to John. He knows this feeling has been building for a long time, and right now is spilling all over the place. He needs to take back the reins of the situation before he does something stupid.

He looks around, finding it strange that Sherlock wasn't back already. By chance he spots him.

Sherlock is in the middle of the dance floor. Mad World from Tears for Fears is playing, and nothing could have prepared him to the sight of Sherlock doing the infamous Roland Orzabal dance. Janine is laughing uncontrollably while trying to copy him. 

He frowns. He wants to appreciate Sherlock Holmes the dance machine, but he can't get there while bothered by how quickly he and Janine seem to have become friends. Is she trying something? It seemed like she knew they were together, why would she make a pass on someone's gay boyfriend, doesn't she realise?

And there lies the biggest issue here: he's not, isn't he? John has genuinely forgotten many times during this trip that Sherlock is _not_ his boyfriend.

Perhaps Janine and him are getting to be friends.

John himself had met Sherlock in a wedding just like this. Even the same people were involved the last time.

What would John do if Janine and Sherlock got as close as they did, after becoming friends in a party?

Is John so easily replaceable in Sherlock's life?

Is he reading too much in this?

A sudden light catches his attention. Sherlock had left his phone plugged into the portable charger on the table, and the screen had lit on with a notification. By habit, he grabs the phone to check on it.

**  
Perhaps instead of trying to find love, we could build it together, you and me. VT**

He blinks. For a moment he is paralysed. He knows he shouldn't be seeing this, this a personal conversation. He didn't know Victor Trevor had been in contact with Sherlock again, but it would explain the amount of notifications Sherlock has been receiving these couple days. As he is frozen in place, staring at the offending phone, another message pops up.

**  
I'm willing to fight for you, if this is what it takes. VT**

A part of him is screaming to unlock the phone, as he knows the password, and see if Sherlock had replied to Victor. By these two messages it doesn't seem like the beginning of the conversation. Another part tells him this is so wrong, and Sherlock would be rightfully pissed at him.

Feeling discombobulated, he puts the phone back on the table screen down. Of all things that could happen, Victor back in the game is not one that he has counted on. He has already been feeling lost, and now the oxygen has been sucked out of the room.

The most surprising bit is that you can still lose everything even when you have nothing.

-*-

Having started on a Sunday afternoon, the ceremony doesn't extend itself into the night. At some point during John's brooding, Ted and Stella have finally found their way to him. He gives them a heartfelt hug, wishes them luck in accomplishing everything they dream about, all the standard words for these speeches. The photographer that had been in tow right behind ushers them to a more illuminated spot to take official pictures.

Sherlock only comes back to the table when the music is cut off, right at the end of the party. John is already on his feet, waiting for him. He watches with fists clenched as Janine gives him kisses on both cheeks. Sherlock is sweaty, breathless and breathtaking, and John aches to touch his face.

Their flight back to London is very early, so they have to tuck in soon if they want to catch some hours of sleep before leaving. Since sweat and alcohol is evaporating through their pores and the morning will be quick, they decide to take another quick shower so they can save those minutes when waking up.

He lets Sherlock go first, entering the en suite as soon as he’s done with the shower. There's no permeating fog, and the mirror is dry, so Sherlock must have taken a lukewarm shower at most. The weather permits it anyway. 

Standing under the shower spray with nowhere to go makes John’s mind finally wander into the anxiety spiral. It's a nameless threat that increases his heartbeat, and he can't let it become too much. He needs to do something. To say something. What are even the right words, if they exist? 

Hey Sherlock, I have nothing to offer, but please take me?

The object of his thoughts is sitting on the bed as John leaves the bathroom, staring at his phone. John wants to take the phone away and throw it out the window, preferably hitting the castle arch in its way.

The struggling-to-survive rational part of his brain tells him how very unimpressed and unappreciative Sherlock would be of that.

Sherlock looks up at him, face inscrutable. There's something there John can't identify, as Sherlock hands over the portable battery he has been carrying, putting his phone on the bedside table, screen down.

'Thank you for that.' Sherlock says, pointing at the battery with his chin. 

'At your service.'

John plugs in his own phone, and turns off the bedside lamp. Sherlock turns to his side facing the wall, while John is still propped by his elbow on the mattress, gazing at his back. Before he can talk himself out of it, he gets up and sits on Sherlock's bed, which dips with his weight. Sherlock starts to turn over, but John puts a hand on his shoulder.

'Can I?' he murmurs, which is the only adequate tone of voice to be used in the dark. 'You can turn around if you want to kick me out.'

He can feel Sherlock's hesitation. He grips the piece of duvet he's sitting on. 'I just want to sleep, I promise.'

It is a shot in the dark, literal and figurative dark, one he couldn't even plan for that matter. But the two beds had been the thing that bothered him the most the second they stepped into the hotel room, and he couldn't even verbalise why. He probably still can't, as his communication abilities are abysmal by general consensus of his exes. He takes the chance, but he's sure it's not going to be accepted. However, he hears a tiny 'Ok.' and embraces it. He lifts the duvet to slide under it before both change their minds. 

Sherlock lays very still except for his calculatedly heaving chest. John comes as close as he can without cuddling, the only point of touch between them being the hand he places right at the middle of Sherlock's back. The hand moves up and down with the ribs that follow his breathing pattern. It's a lovely feeling, and John cherishes it.

The shoulder muscles are peeking out from the loose pyjama top Sherlock is wearing. They look stiff, rock hard. John would very much like to do things to fix it, to touch them properly, to touch _Sherlock_ properly, but he's already breaching boundaries enough without adding meaningful layers to the situation.

Eventually they synchronise their breathings involuntarily, and they fall asleep just like this, in a bed too narrow for two people. 

-*-

The alarm clock on his phone is programmed for the middle of the night, and it rings like the call of hell. Usually Sherlock would prefer not sleeping at all than being awakened during slumber, as it is a stressful process to the body, and he feels more tired than before. However, he couldn't do much but fall directly into bed after too much champagne and dancing, which were the follow-up of a day of outdoor activities, including going up huge medieval staircases. His feet were throbbing with pain when he finally managed to lay down.

Dancing is something he normally doesn't indulge in as he never has enthusiastic company for that, but he loves it. Janine had been a pleasant surprise, as she presented a nice sense of humour, jokes at times a bit too innuendo-ish for him, but it does fit her style. She had asked him to use his gaydar (his _what_ now?) to help the process of elimination of potential hook up candidates.

He had been glad to apply one of his favourite methods, but there were very few possibilities for her, who ended up spending the night dancing with him.

Surprisingly, after having dreaded this weekend for weeks, planning on doing it just as a favour to John, he had a lot of fun. His notebook is now full of new ideas, his organism got refilled of endorphin thanks to physical exercises, he ate nice food, met a new friend, and gets to go home with a bottle of local wine.

And of course, he spent lots of quality time with John.

Which is both a gift and a curse. He loves being with John. Even during disagreements, there's something very endearing about John getting riled up, not that Sherlock does that on purpose. Sometimes, because of that, he misses the signs that John has reached a serious level of rage, but to be fair, it almost never is directed at him.

The one last thing he had wished to end the vacation on a good note had been dancing with John. He knows, obviously, that John is no dancer, but he had expected that he would at least join Sherlock. But he refused to even get up.

It does feel like a pattern in his relationships. Greg had argued over and over that he felt too old and disgruntled to be dancing with him. Sherlock never even likes clubs or such, but at events like this isn't it customary to let go and have fun? Victor is too shy and doesn't like being the centre of attention, so he always says that he would feel like a sore thumb sticking out on a dancefloor if he accompanied Sherlock.

Not even his fake boyfriend wants to dance with him.

He supposes it would be easier if he just dated women. But having friends like Janine fill the role nicely, so he had been immensely grateful for her.

Another reason to be so keen on letting the steam out had been the long conversation they had. Taking a shower and recollecting, he couldn't believe some of the stuff he said. John had been evasive most of the night, answering but not really confirming his questions, but it was a start. Being so exposed is not a feeling he's used to, so getting away from it for a bit was nice.

Except that he came back to Victor's messages waiting for him. After an impressive build-up, he had made his move. He wants to go back to Sherlock. He claims they will fix whatever was wrong with them, but both of them should compromise.

While John had been in the shower, he had read everything again from Friday up until during the ceremony. If the two halves of his brain could talk, the discussion would be something like:

_For the first time someone is willing to fight for you._

vs

_Just like the dog that eats its own vomit_

And then John, not satisfied with having mulled Sherlock's thoughts for two entire days, asks for a cuddle. There are no other words that could explain it: it was a cuddle. True, they mostly weren't touching, but he appreciates that, as he usually becomes a furnace in the middle of the night, and he hates the feeling of being locked with no free move.

The one time he doesn't mind it is when pressed down for lovemaking, but this is another matter.

So he wakes up to the brittle sound of the alarm in his ears, but before he can reach around blindly to turn it off, John does that for him.

That's when Sherlock opens his eyes. He somehow had turned on his other side during the night, back to the wall, and John is on his back, holding Sherlock's wrist against his own stomach. His other arm is just coming back to behind his head, after dropping Sherlock's phone again on the bedside table, now silent. John crunches his face as if trying to summon himself from sleep, and only then realises Sherlock staring at him. 

Perhaps it's his body complaining it didn't have enough rest, but Sherlock doesn't see it until it happens.

John takes one look at him, then moves closer and kisses the corner of his mouth, lingering.

Both stay still. John moves back an inch, just enough to gaze into Sherlock's eyes. His own heartbeat goes from I could as well fall asleep again to _Mayday, this is a crisis!_ in a second. John himself looks much more aware of life than he was just before breaking the balance of the universe by kissing Sherlock.

John licks his lips, looking down properly at Sherlock's mouth, and moves closer again.

But Sherlock moves his head back.

John blinks at him.

This is not supposed to happen. Sherlock's mind is whirling out of control, but the one thing he's sure of is that this is not going to end well, for all he knows. This is John, who never settles. Who doesn't know commitment. Who purposefully badly treated the person who intended to stay with him forever. 

_This is not supposed to happen._

He sits up, climbs over John, ignoring his pleading "Sherlock." and manages to get his phone from the table before he flees to the bathroom.

He falls down on the closed toilet lid panicking, gripping his phone tightly. He can hear John moving around the bedroom, and the ceiling light comes from under the door. He pees and washes his hands and face. They don't have time to do this now. After a deep breath he gets his phone and finally answers Victor's messages, typing with shaking thumbs.

Sherlock's face must convey a whole mood, since it makes John immediately close his mouth as he leaves the bathroom. They get changed and pack their stuff in complete silence. 

It's another one hour and something on the bus back to Toulouse, and a twenty minutes shuttle train to the airport, where they are getting a direct flight to London Gatwick. The trip is tense. Sherlock feels the need to doze off at the back of his eyes and a pounding headache, but he just puts on his headphones and tunes out the world. 

And John.

Arriving in London is cathartic somehow. They walk together to the exit gates, Sherlock phone already in hand since a second after landing. 

'So.' John speaks for the first time since the hotel in Auch. Well, not the first, as it would be impossible, but the first time that clearly has no utilitarian purpose once they are back home. 'Do we get the train or…'

'I have a ride, actually.' he interrupts before his stomach succeeds in coming up his throat. 'Sorry for that.'

'Sherlock!'

They both look up in the voice's direction, belonging to Victor Trevor, of course. John looks sincerely shocked, so Sherlock turns away from him, walking to his boyfriend so they can meet in the middle.

'Hey, John. Nice to see you,' Sherlock can't parse if Victor is being sincere, as he knows the animosity between the two men never settled. 'Do you want a lift to the city centre?'

John shakes his head flimsy. 'No, I'm fine. I should get going. Bye.'

'See you at home.' Sherlock says weakly, like the coward he is.

John turns around and basically marches away from them. Victor grips both Sherlock's shoulders. 'I couldn't believe when you answered me.' he says in a low voice. He looks great, and Sherlock is aware how he himself looks right now, wrinkled and with little sleep under him. 'I'm so glad. We can do this.'

The whole point has been that he hopes they can.


	14. Hyssop

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Come say hi on my tumblr or twitter, although I'm more active on twitter. I talk about my projects and also post links to the songs for each chapter a bit before publishing it.
> 
> Song: Ladies' Code - Galaxy

Being in the funeral business for most of his adult life means John can catalogue and describe quite graphically several ways of dying. In the beginning, the toll it took to his mental sanity was the paranoia about dying in avoidable circumstances. After years, you get over it, learning that while yes, some deaths are preventable, we can't spend our lives thinking about that. Everyone will die eventually.

However, there is a subtle difference between not feeding paranoia about dying and disregarding recurrent professional advice. Some ideas are just bad in John's opinion. In his understanding, most home child births are bad ideas.

Many complications could arise from giving birth at home, without medical assistance. Movies make it seem more straightforward, but then movies are generally a disservice to reality and should not be taken at face value beyond entertainment.

Another issue is that many parents and relatives think that going to hospital necessarily means not having natural childbirth, which is a misconception. 

It is a developed country they are living in, so he can't say it's the most common thing, but given these circumstances, the number of casualties in childbirth is still unusually high if he goes just through the numbers of Mike's funeral house. Sometimes it's the mother; sometimes it's the baby. The worst is when both die.

The job for today features the worst of the worst-case scenario. The mother to be was only twenty-one years old, and she had been pregnant with twins. Her side of the family is genetically predisposed for twins, as there are several pairs present in the genealogy, including herself. According to her twin sister, she and her boyfriend of two years were swept up by antivax forums on the internet and began rejecting pharmacology in general. So, they decided to have a home birth.

The first of the babies had come out without any complications, but the second one got entangled with the umbilical cord. While getting her out, the uterus got ruptured, which led to severe haemorrhage. During the commotion, the people involved weren’t paying enough attention to the first baby, who was showing signals of distress. It turns out the delivery wasn't appropriately handled while being born, so the child was having trouble breathing and probably in pain.

They eventually called an ambulance, but the babies were already dead when they arrived, and the mom couldn't even make it to the hospital.

And now John is the one responsible for the disposal of the three bodies. Because of a choice of one of them, the other two didn't have a chance.

The ethics of a funeral house dictates its employees should treat the mourners with maximum respect and understanding towards their hard times. This doesn't impede John's mind to wander in judgement for colossal mistakes like this. Yes, there could be some reasonable justification on the other side of the story that he's not privy to, but those details are not required for him to do his job. Being the case, he's free to put these people in his mind blacklist without any repercussion.

Boyfriend is inconsolable. This is one of the few cremations where the family sob for the whole of the duration. John usually doesn't mind working, but today he just wants it to be over, as there is a limit to morbidness, and this fills his quota for at least a year or so.

Especially considering he hasn't been in the best state of mind recently.

The mother's family blames the boyfriend. They don't let him participate in any of the rituals, and nobody talks to him; he stays isolated with his parents in a corner. Right at the end, it ends up escalating, as the deceased woman's father suddenly walks up to the guy and punches him. A lot of screaming follows, and John finds himself in the middle of the fight to separate the two. 

Someone finally calls Mike to the scene, who gives a stern word or ten to the assailant. 'I do _not_ tolerate this kind of behaviour, this is a place of _respect_! Not just for the deceased, but the mourners as well.' John has never heard Mike, easy-going soft-spoken Mike, sounding so harsh. 'You required professional services in difficult times, and all my employees are assisting to make the passage smoother for your family with the utmost sobriety. The _bare_ minimum we ask is decency!'

The man's wife clutches the sister, wailing. The boyfriend leaves, too shaken and disturbed, while his parents threaten an ASBO, but the father just keeps his sight on the ground, looking to all the world like a chastised kid.

John is mostly glad nobody is paying attention to him anymore, so he can turn off the machines and change the remains to the plastic container without having questions fired at him.

'Are you ok?'

He realises Mike is talking to him, and the mourners are gone. He steps out from behind the crematorium.

'Yes, sure. There were enough people to hold him off. I didn't get hit or anything.'

Mike puts his hands inside his pockets, scrutinising John's face with seeming cogitation. 'Right, that's good. Do you want a pint after work?'

-*-

It's shocking to realise that it's been a long while since he's done this, John thinks as he and Mike sit side by side at the high table of the pub some blocks from the funeral house. He's mostly been buying beer from Tesco and drinking directly from the bottle in front of the TV. The wine he and Sherlock had bought together in Auch is sitting untouched in the cupboard, the bottle covered with dust already.

'Usually, we are fresh when we return from vacation' Mike comments offhandedly, chewing on the plate of chips after sipping from his beer mug. 'But I do suppose it’s depressing returning to the London rain after having just a taste of the French countryside, castles and everything.'

John winces. 'It's been a month already, why are you still stuck on this?'

A month ago, he had got on a train at London Gatwick and gone directly to work while still in denial about what had happened. He had bypassed Mike on his way to the crematorium, but Molly had intercepted him at lunchtime, asking why he looked like shit, and if something had happened. Which meant word got out quite quickly, and Mike became adamant about getting to the root of John’s numbness, jokingly asking if rural France was not as beautiful as the internet made it be. 

John had ignored all of them that day and apologised for being rude on the next, attributing his terrible mood to Monday blues.

But every single time he encountered evidence of Sherlock's relationship with Victor being back on track, he would fall into the spiral of denial again, snapping at anyone that inadvertently made him aware that no, he's not lucid dreaming any of this. Apparently, hallucinations can’t have this much detail.

After four weeks of feeling like this, he's exhausted. It's more than he has ever handled in around twenty years of dating history, even considering the "it's less dramatic than it seems" high school period, full of puberty inexperience.

Reaching out to someone to vent ended up being fruitless. Yes, John has known Mike for a long time, but their relationship has been strictly male British, where they make jokes about the serious topics at hand in the hopes the other catches up, and they don't have to put into proper words.

He thought about talking to his friends. But putting in the group chat sounded weird, as nobody ever does that. When Gordon got a divorce, which is obviously way more severe than unreciprocated feelings for a friend, he hadn't said anything in the group. John could have talked to some of them in private. But, as he had considered the possibility, he realised he wasn't that close to any of them that he felt comfortable enough to send a message about romantic advice.

The one person who always listened to him was Sherlock, unavailable for obvious reasons.

On a lonely Friday night two weeks ago he had held the phone, ready to call Ted, but he managed to talk himself out of it after forty minutes of doing so. What would Ted even say?

'I don't know, mate. You're the one who seems stuck in it.'

He shrugs, and Mike sighs.

'John, I know this isn't about the vacation. Or rather, something that went wrong _during_ the vacation. I called Ted.'

John looks up quickly. 'What did you call him for?'

'Nothing to do with you.' Mike says without any heat. It's just a statement of fact, not a knock-it-off. 'Congratulate him. Ask how the ceremony went, apologise again that I couldn't come. He told me about the adoption business, and asked for advice. And he said you agreed on being a godparent. You and _your boyfriend_ , who seemed a lovely couple.' he says pointedly.

John groans, resting his forehead on the tabletop, only to lift it again as it was probably disgusting.

'Now, that was a surprise for me, as you didn't have one when you left. The only thing I knew was that you were taking Sherlock as your plus-one,' Mike’s tone drips of fake innocence. 'I mean, a bit weird, taking a friend to a location wedding of sorts, but you two were always attached to the hip, so I didn't think much about it.'

'We weren't dating.' John says through gritted teeth.

'I know you weren't. But why was Ted under the impression that you were?'

John frowns. 'How do you know we weren't?'

'If there is one relationship I'm invested in, it is you two. Four years of this tension is driving me and Molly _nuts_!'

John feels whiplashed out of a sudden. 'What the hell are you talking about?

Mike puts the half-empty mug on the tabletop. 'You weren’t as subtle as you thought but, to be fair, I’ve known you for a long time. He was never your typical friend. If something had changed between you two, I'm confident I would’ve known. When he started dating, I knew it wasn't going to end well. I was just never sure if you were aware of that, or were that steeped in denial, or simply didn't understand what was going on.'

'I- I don't know. It's too much for me, honestly, these days I feel like drawing a diagram of my feelings. Or a map! I'd like some direction for sure.'

'We got side-tracked here. Go back to my question.'

'Right. Well. You know how Ted is about marriage.'

'He's a romantic.'

'He's a bit obsessed.'

'That too, but how could he not, given how well it worked for him.'

'Anyway. If I had brought a date with me, they would hear all that stuff and… you know… get _ideas_.'

Mike looks sideways and back, sipping on his beer. John knows he's thinking something but doesn't want to say it. 

'So we both were single… I asked him to pose as my boyfriend.'

Mike snorts. 'Right. How in the world did you think it was a good idea?'

'Uuugh.' he presses his palms to his eyes, stars exploding behind his eyelids. 'The worst is that the actual weekend was great. I mean, really,' he glances again at Mike, gesturing. 'It was amazing. We got on so well, I became… Hopeful that things would change.'

'Sherlock went back to Victor.'

'Yes. And you know the worst? Victor's been on his best behaviour this last month. Before he would avoid me like the plague... yeah, yeah, don't give me that look, I know I also did that. But now whenever he comes to fetch Sherlock, he's all small talk, how you're doing etc. And I'm aware he's stepping back in fighting with Sherlock because I haven't been aware of a row. It's infuriating! I know it's just to get on his good books!'

'John. With all due respect, can I say something?' 

'Oh, boy.'

'Right. Their relationship? You have nothing to do with it. If they had a row or whatever, it's not your business.'

'Ouch, mate.'

'I mean it. If Sherlock wanted that, step back. If you want to do something about Sherlock, focus on that, but while knowing what you're getting into. You will be actively messing with someone else's relationship. If you're ok with that, it's up to you.'

There's a pause. John works his throat a lot, not knowing what exactly will come out of it. For a second he's afraid it will be tears. 'Are you saying I should give up on him?'

'I'm not telling you to do anything, I'm just highlighting some points you should consider when you finally decide what to do.'

'Yeah. Ok.'

John needs more alcohol for this. So, he offers the next round, which Mike gladly accepts. As John waits for both drinks, he notices a woman standing next to him, doing the same. She glances at him and smiles. He can barely manage to tug at his lips out of politeness. She's probably working up to start some small-talk, and John knows the drill. Smile, the weather, compliment, compliment, want a drink, engage in conversation, exchange numbers.

For the first time, he has no patience for the flirting script. He wants nothing to do with it.

John remembers his libido awakening right after his first kiss. Well, not the first at the tender age of thirteen, which involved too much saliva and teeth, but the subsequent ones. The first girlfriend who actually agreed to let him in her bed while her parents were out, at sixteen. 

After she broke up with John less than a year later because he kept refusing to be introduced to her parents as _the boyfriend_ , he messed up with a guy in Tim's backyard. He had been utterly terrified as he thought if someone saw them, he would get his sorry ass beaten. Ted had manned the entrance to the yard, promising to sound a whistle if someone came over, including Tim and Myrtle, arriving from work.

He had been a sort of early bloomer.

Loneliness is a feeling John doesn't like at all, and he established very soon he should avoid it at all costs. He doesn’t like dealing with that terrible absence of sound or activity or the warmth of another body, hence the several relationships in his belt. It adds up to his appreciation for sex, becoming a two-birds-one-stone situation.

But since Sherlock—one of the most important people in the world to John—rejected him, his constant desire had waned off. Flirting or being flirted with honestly throws him off, and it's the last thing in his mind right now.

He’d stop to analyse if something has broken in him—if being in his position had finally damaged him—if he gave a toss about that.

Which he doesn't.

So, when the woman finally speaks up, asking John if he's watching the match (it's rugby night, and while he liked playing it at school, he doesn't hold much interest in watching it), he's relieved that his drinks are ready just then and he can excuse himself away from the counter without acknowledging her. He's perfectly aware he's being rude but, once again, it's not like it's going to make a difference.

He puts both drinks over the table, noticing that Mike has been watching him the whole time sporting a carefully blank face. 

'Rather not like you, back there, passing up the opportunity.' 

John shrugs. 'Not in the mood.'

'John, I'm sorry,' Mike replies with a sigh. 'I think I was too harsh on you just now.'

He shakes his head, putting down the beer mug after taking a sip. 'No, it's fine. You were right anyway. I… This whole thing is just so unfamiliar to me.'

'Is Sherlock… normal? I mean, are you two ok with each other or-?'

John snorts. That's the worst part. Suddenly it flashes through him that he considers lots of parts the worst, so he probably should settle with how this is the worst in general.

'In the beginning, it was very awkward. But Sherlock didn't avoid me, thankfully. I got the feeling that he was trying to pass up everything as ‘ok, let's continue as before’, but that would be a lie, isn't it? I'm not sure I can do that. Pretend I'm happy. We're not as comfortable with each other as before.'

This is what hits John the hardest. Having the best companionship ever strained through uneasiness.

He misses Sherlock so terribly.

-*-

One month is a ridiculous amount of time for him to be moping about, so this has to stop. 

John sends a message to the group chat, proposing a meeting. He even suggests creating a schedule online, so they cross their appointments and availability information to several possible days until the app itself finds a suitable day and hour for everyone.

Jamal replies that it sounds cool, but doesn't answer the quest for the link John created and posted. Two days later Mathieu apologises for missing the message, as he just checked out his phone, but offers no further information whether he's interested. From the others, John gets radio silence. Andy doesn't even check the group, but John can see he has been online.

Eventually, it gets embarrassing enough that he deletes the link altogether.

There's a voice in the back of his head informing him how very unsurprised he is by the whole ordeal. That he should open his eyes, and admit what has been going on for years now. That he doesn't let go for no reason other than nostalgia, but that it's over now.

That he needs to listen to what Sherlock said.

The stubborn beast in him doesn't want to listen to Sherlock, being one more friend who rejected him, although in the romantic dimension.

But the truth is that Sherlock had been the only friend who knew how he felt about his friends, even if he never said aloud (just like so many things in his life). Sherlock simply knows because he's acquainted enough with John's histrionics to understand him.

'My friends hate me.' he says to himself, not managing to go higher than a whisper. 

'My friends hate me.' he repeats a bit louder. He tries again and again until he's talking normally, looking out the window and observing the clouds, deducing to himself "It's going to rain soon." so he can get an umbrella before leaving.

It comes out quite naturally. Perhaps it's a piece of fact that has been on his mind so long, waiting to be acknowledged, that making it pass through his mouth doesn't change the balance of the universe like he's been expecting.

What did he even gain from these people lately?

Then he's idly scrolling through Instagram, opening the stories from the people he follows, when he detects the pattern again. His friends doing stuff with other people, quite frequently. Putting up pictures from seemingly the same place, but in different angles or whatever. 

He even finds evidence of them hanging out with each other. There are pictures and short videos, and similar descriptions, and tagging each other. He was never invited.

He opts for an experimental approach. After long minutes hovering his thumb over the option on his screen, getting in and out of the app, he presses _leave the group_. He puts the phone down and goes to do something else, still fully aware that he's keeping an ear for any future notification.

One day blends into the other, and nobody comes on private chat to ask if something has happened, why he left the group or if he’s ok.

Since that's the case, after a whole week, he also goes on social media and deletes every single one of them. 

A weight lifts off John’s chest. A weight he didn’t know he had been carrying all these years. It feels like a tremendous gulp of oxygen after having been abandoned at the bottom of the ocean, cut off from air all his life.

How purifying to cut them off entirely.

And that's when he finds himself in a weird position: not dating, not dependent on his friends’ schedules, still walking on eggshells with Sherlock, who recently took to spending a lot more time with Victor than usual, he has nobody to entertain him. To suggest an activity, something to fill the days off.

John is on his own for the first time, and he has no idea where to start.

He ends up resorting to Google. Perhaps he needs a hobby, but nothing comes to mind as to what he can do. Maybe the Greatest Source can offer an interesting suggestion.

Some hobbies are more physical. He's not sedentary by any means (ok, perhaps he is a little bit), preferring to walk if it's possible, not shying away from exercising, but he feels like he would stick out like a sore thumb in a gym or doing sports. He has no interest in bulking up or to exert himself more than he needs to. Yoga or pilates sound like he would be bored to tears, even if they would be tremendously beneficial in his age.

Book club? There's an announcement of a group that gets together every fortnight on Wednesdays evening to discuss a variety of book genres. He considers a lot subscribing for this one, but since he's not feeling enthusiastic, he passes this one up too.

Picking up an instrument is the one thing out of consideration, as he thinks he's now too old to appreciate the untuned sounds of somebody killing a cat that is learning music. Kids are more forgivable on that end, tending not to mind sounding horrible until they learn, but it's not something he's willing to do. 

Crochet and knitting are handy abilities to have, and he wouldn't mind learning it, but the toxic masculinity side of his brain tells him how he would look pathetic in the middle of a bunch of women knitting.

Then one little thing catches his attention: art classes for adults, every Tuesday evening, three underground stations away from Baker Street.

Art isn't a subject he ever gave much of himself at school. He preferred the practicality of biology classes, where there were only correct answers. A bone goes there, and there only. The hormone that helps with this condition is this one, and nothing else. It's way easier than art, which people repeatedly told him was subjective and open to interpretation of the viewer, and without proper feedback on how to correct it, he doesn't know what to do next.

He can appreciate art in a museum unless it’s contemporary. Contemporary art is something he simply gave up spending his time or money in it, after so many weird expositions that made him question how the hell someone can shit on a canvas and be praised as an artist for it. 

More traditional paintings and drawings, and even sculptures do appeal to him, and he can see the beauty in them, especially if it has historical significance. 

Being colourblind also skewes John’s views on the matter, as using red and green vibrant palettes only messes up with his brain, and he ends up with a migraine.

Currently, when he thinks of art, he remembers Sherlock, who likes to sketch to get the ideas out his head. He remembers laying down on soft grass, hearing the wind fluttering dozens of sunflowers and the delicate scratch of a pencil against paper, when he thought he could be happy just like that.

It's not the point of this whole exercise, which is picking up an activity of his own independent interest. But the prospect somehow comforts him, that there will be something they have in common again.

He sends an email in response to the announcement after much thought, and they answer soon enough, asking for his info details so he can sign up for the classes.

Strangely, he finds himself looking forward to it.


	15. Pansy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Come say hi on my tumblr or twitter, although I'm more active on twitter. I talk about my projects and also post links to the songs for each chapter a bit before publishing it.
> 
> Song: Loona - Voice

The class is small, thankfully. There's John, and two guys who look like in their early twenties at college, a woman older than him (he guesses she's in her late fifties) and a young woman with a hijab he can't parse the age, as she mostly engages with the older people in the room while looking like college age too. Looks can be deceiving, he knows.

The instructor is Megan, who is a bit older than him but not as much as his classmate. 

Megan tells them they'll start with rough sketches with charcoal. They should try to reproduce a life-size doll with no face sitting in the middle of the room, while their chairs are arranged in a circle. She says it's important they reproduce what they are seeing, including the clear defects in the doll shape, instead of using an ideal image they have in their head. She will also help them individually in turns.

It's harder than it looks, but it's a solid enough of a task to ground John. He likes it. 

The charcoal makes a mess of everything. He’s forgotten to roll up his sleeves like the other people, ending up with them completely soiled. His hands are all stained black, and he forgets about it for a second to scratch his nose, leaving him with a dirty face, just like a five-year old’s.

Well, it's better than the two college guys, who made a mess of themselves and now are poking fun of each other with crude whispers that John can overhear.

Distracted, he doesn't notice Megan coming his way until she sits down next to him. She has her head trimmed quite short, almost bald, and uses glasses with thick lenses. He can spy a wedding ring on her left hand.

'Hello, you're John, right?' she smiles at him in a gently professional way. 'How are you doing with your task?'

'Ahm.' he looks at his sheet of paper, supported at an angled drawing table. It looks like the dog was playing with the charcoal rather than a depiction of the doll. He says nothing, hoping she instructs him on what to do.

'That's fine. The beginning is always hard. But art is all practice, the more you try the better you get. You are supposed to fail reproducing at first until the details come easily. How do you find this specific task? Are you comfortable, or would you prefer a more abstract style?'

'I think I'm more comfortable with this, having real things to work with.'

'Yeah, I can see that you're looking for the exact lines.' she says, pointing at some parts of his sketch. 'The difficult part for a beginner is to identify what goes where, especially in anatomy. You see right here around the head; you lost some perspective to capture the shape in 3D. I wanted to take note of everyone's struggles, and since everyone is having an issue with perspectives, I'll make it jump the queue of classes a little bit.'

He nods, not quite knowing how to answer that.

'And how are you feeling?'

He blinks. 'Sorry, what?'

'Art reflects a lot of our inner thoughts and feelings, of course now you are copying something I told you to, but our muses, the sources of inspiration, also say a lot about ourselves at the moment of creating it. So, I think it's important to know how my students are feeling, to understand a bit better what they are expressing through their art.'

He fidgets in his seat, growing restless. That's not exactly what he signed up for.

'I feel uncomfortable.' he opts for sincerity.

Megan studies him with a contemplative expression. 'Uncomfortable in saying how you feel, or a general state of being?'

Now, that's a question he wasn't expecting to hear. Perhaps a vague reprimand on not engaging enough. Then he realises the answer to that. 'I don't know.'

She tilts her head slightly. John has a feeling that this level of complexity hadn't been present at the other students' inquiries, which only makes his unease inflates. He starts to question if coming to these classes was the right call after all.

'John, this is not my first profession.' 

'Ok...' he frowns, trying to connect the lost dots of the conversation. Did he miss something? How is this relevant to the charcoal drawing and his inability to verbalise how he feels?

'I'm actually a psychologist. I was active in therapy for almost twenty years. I decided I needed a change in my life, so I gave up that. The art-class idea came from a technique I used a lot with kids and teenagers, which was to let them make art for the reasons I just told you. Art can be quite revealing about the troubles of the soul.'

He now knows where this is going.

'If you are interested, I can give you some cards of colleagues still working as therapists.'

'Are you saying I have issues?' he asks defensively. 'You barely know me. Scratch that, you don't know me at all.'

'I don't; that's true. And I'm not saying there's something wrong with you, but I'm a firm believer everyone should do therapy.'

He makes a face. 'If you say so.'

She gets up, and she doesn't look offended, which is good because later he would regret adding her to the growing list of people he has been unnecessarily rude to lately. 'Offer will be up indefinitely. You just need to ask.'

She moves to another student, leaving him to his thoughts.

-*-

There's a Costa some blocks from the funeral house, on the way home, where John gets the occasional fancy drink during lunchtime. This particular unit of the coffee shop franchise also happens to be around the corner of the school where Jeanette works, and the place where they met all those months ago.

Of course he and Jeanette were bound to bump into each other eventually, unless one of them decided to avoid the place altogether. It happens around two months after he comes back from France.

At first, Jeanette doesn't want to talk to John, and he sees how she's planning to leave before making her order, but he insists that she would listen to him for just two minutes and that he wasn't trying to get her back.

They take a small table for two since she has a sandwich and a pastry for lunch. 

'So?'

'Ahm.' This has been all he had planned. The idea had spurred on him when he saw her. It's not hard to say what he wants to; he just needs to step away from the embarrassment a bit. 'Look, I just wanted to apologise. I'm aware I didn't treat you very nicely.'

'No, you didn't.' while Jeanette’s tone remains dry, he can see the curiosity underlying her expression. 'But I never expected to hear this from you, of all people.'

Which is fair. John has given a lot of thought to what she told him when they broke up. Well, when she broke up with him. He has always considered her an intrusive person, slyly inserting herself into his plans, and bringing him along to every single activity she was part of. But she told him how he was the one that never gave space to her, up to the point that she had to take initiative, otherwise it wouldn't happen.

It was true; he never counted Jeanette in. She wouldn't have met any of his "friends" if she hadn't suggested so. His weekends would be vacant if she hadn't proposed things for them to do. He had resented that multiple times, because he just wants to hang out with Sherlock at home. Her leisure preferences had always been quite different from his own, but instead of looking for a compromise for them, he let the boredom of doing those things build up.

Life can be deceiving when you close your eyes to others’ perspectives.

'You made some good points back then, but I wasn't willing to listen. Even so, thank you for being honest, and once again, I'm sorry.'

She folds her arms on the table, chewing her pastry, appraising him with narrowed eyes. John can tell she’s trying to figure him out, ascertain what brought on this change in his attitude.

'What happened?' she finally asks. 'I'm glad you are apologising, don't mind me, but some months ago you would have never admitted a fault in your conduct. Heck, during the breakup you told me you always thought you were great. Was it the wedding? Did you meet someone?'

'It was a vow renewal's ceremony. And no, I didn't meet anyone,' John gulps, averting his eyes, but it's enough for Jeanette to sniff the wound like a dog.

'Oh, but it has something to do with the ‘vow renewal’' she points an accusing finger towards him.

He sighs. 'In a way. Some stuff… happened.'

'Is this about Sherlock?'

'Ho- how… why would you even say that?'

She rolls her eyes. 'John. It's not even a question. You have your head up in your arse about him in such a way it's hard for outsiders to get close. I have no idea how that man had a boyfriend with you breathing down his neck all the time.'

'I- wo- ouch.' he doesn't even know what to say, shellshocked that he is. ' _I_ wasn't even fully aware of my feelings before France. How could you have seen it?'

'You forget that I was the one competing with him. It was very obvious to _me_ ,' she then blinks quickly in succession. 'Wait, so something did happen, did you confess to him?'

He rubs his face. 'Not exactly. I thought… I thought it was going to happen, you know, between us. But he sort of rejected me.'

'So he doesn't reciprocate your feelings?'

'Ugh, I don't know.' he grabs his hair with one hand. 'I had the impression that he did, but...'

'But you never asked him.'

'I- No, I didn't.'

'And by "sort of rejecting you",' and she does the air quotes to illustrate. 'You mean he never outright said he didn't return your telepathic feelings?'

'You make me sound so lame.'

'Because you are.'

'Yeah, well, you're right, there wasn't much talking. Actually there _was_ a lot of talking, but somehow, in a whole conversation about relationships, we managed not to talk about us, in the context of us together. Just on our separate issues.'

'Ugh, men, why?' She throws her hands up to the heavens. 'Can't you ask him? I know it's an alien concept to you, but communication can fix a lot of stuff.'

'Ta, thanks for that. Anyway, now it's probably too late. He went back to his tosser boyfriend right after it.'

'What was… it?'

What was it, indeed, John wonders. Two days filled with peace and contentment. He had been in a place where he finally felt so comfortable with someone that he never worried for one second about saying the wrong thing, about presenting his best image, about hiding his fears, about talking back in disagreement with something. He had laid his heart bare without knowing it, and had even made his mouth pronounce the words he can't even say in his head, and couldn't make his own ears register it. If his mouth was the one putting it out in the world, he could pretend it was never his heart to begin with. 

Just that once, he had wanted to give everything.

But how can one just explain that? It was like Lucy coming back from inside the wardrobe, telling her siblings about having tea with a fawn, but if nobody knew what that was, how can you put in words that exist only in the other side of reality?

'I tried to kiss him,' is what he settles for.

Jeanette cleans up her tray, crunching the used napkins into a ball. 'Look, I have to go back to work. But I have to say this: if it wasn't reciprocal, he probably wouldn't have let you be all over him. Unless he has some serious boundaries issues. But John? I also had feelings for you, and that didn't prevent me from getting pissed at you. In fact, sometimes the context of the relationship makes the feelings fade. If he rejected you, there was a reason. Try to figure out what it was.'

He swallows, trying to process what she has just told him. 'Thank you for the advice. And again, I'm sorry for… everything.'

'Forgiven,' she stands up, points at him again. 'But not forgotten. I still think you are a jerk. And I'm not really interested in being friends with exes.'

'Understood,' he nods and she leaves him sitting there, contemplating the possibility that he had made a mistake regarding Sherlock. Or many.


	16. Lotus

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Come say hi on my tumblr or twitter, although I'm more active on twitter. I talk about my projects and also post links to the songs for each chapter a bit before publishing it.
> 
> Song: Amuro Namie - body feels EXIT
> 
> Note: the egg scene was taken from the book All-American Girl, by Meg Cabot. Yes, pre-teen girl me used to read Meg Cabot XD

John never intended to dedicate huge chunks of time to a hobby—and he still doesn't—but, like everything that requires you to produce or create stuff, practice is mandatory. He doesn't see himself doing art for exhibitions or anything like that, but if he started something to just be mediocre in it, his frustration would escalate and that would defeat the purpose of having a hobby to begin with.

So, he buys some small notebooks: pocket size, really, and carries them on him at all times. He doesn't spend the day drawing, obviously, but whenever inspiration strikes, he makes a drabble in one page and moves on.

The goal is to draw a little everyday. Megan said it's good to make it a habit.

His classmates all have different styles, as they soon found out with Megan's help. Nadeema, for example—the one who surprisingly is closer to John's age despite looking so young—works better with imagined scenarios, while John tends to go for reproduction.

It's easier to just look around, focus onto an object or a plant and then try and put it down on paper. After the first month of classes, they finally moved to drawing human figures. John's interest in anatomy back from school works in his favour as he is able to remember the parts of a body and details on humans' faces.

When he has some free time or a window between services, he pays Molly a visit in the mortuary to take a look at the corpses, as mostly they don't complain about being a subject to artists as living people do. They also stay locked in place, which makes his life easier when capturing body positions.

What John does prefer to draw, he soon finds out, are bones, since he sees a lot of them in the cremation process. Morally, you can also separate bones from the entity of a dead person. Sherlock seems to be fascinated by this artistic choice.

At home, John feels like things aren't so strained anymore, even if being around Sherlock feels odd now that he is afraid of touching or talking to him in any way that could be misconstrued as inappropriate. Not that Sherlock gave him the notion that he would mind, but John prefers to err on the side of caution.

So when Sherlock notices John practicing, right when he starts taking classes, he's nothing but encouraging.

'There are some websites that propose exercises to train drawing,' Sherlock suggests, already pulling up his phone. 'I'll send the links to you right now.'

As the weeks go by, Sherlock makes a point of always checking John's progress and praising his advancements. He knows Sherlock is not one to praise freely, nevermind bothering to deliver fake compliments to spare anyone’s feelings, so John feels grateful and enjoys having a safe space again to talk to him.

Which means that slowly he goes back to the habit of staring at Sherlock's face.

It _is_ an amazing face. Angular in ways that are hard to explain. They had learned the different shapes of people's faces and how to spot them. More importantly, how to apply these shapes in simple contours, later on adding perspective and sense of deepness to the lines.

He gazes at Sherlock's face merely for the pleasure of doing so, and the longing motivating it, as he has it memorised by now. The pictures he took in Auch on his phone are always a reference he resorts to, for drawing and for bringing up good memories.

After over three months of coming back from France, the complicated feeling hasn't shown signs of fading away, tightening his chest whenever he allows himself to think about it.

But instead of resenting his lack of action towards resolving it, he has embraced the sentiment like a part of him. It's almost like a comfort place to go back to. He's so fine for someone pining over their best friend, it's astonishing. For the initial intensity, he thought it would ensue a fuck ton of suffering.

The desire to date also has yet to emerge, and he doesn't make an effort to look for it. He hasn't made a celibate vow, he's not traumatised by rejection, he's just… living his life, being content with whatever he's able to get.

In the end, Sherlock goes back home and puts disgusting things in the fridge. John complains, Sherlock counter-argues. They buy takeaway, Sherlock complains, John tries to compromise. They watch crap telly, both complain at it, none changes the channel.

Victor Trevor had been a cautious topic ever since the dreadful get to know you dinner over a year ago. Now, however, it feels like the man doesn't exist when he's not present. John doesn't know how to feel about this. Before, he would definitely be aware of any quarrels going on between the couple as he's able to sniff Sherlock's discontentment from two miles away. He would know they were going fine by the rate of little side smiles Sherlock would give at his phone screen. Sometimes Sherlock would disappear at random times of the week, clearly away to meet the boyfriend.

In the first month, during the not cute phase of self-pity John was going through, Victor sometimes came over to fetch Sherlock. John and Victor were perfectly polite at each other.

He can't help but think Sherlock looked relieved everytime, but not engaged enough to care.

He realises that slowly over the months, Victor stopped making an appearance. Sherlock leaves every Saturday to meet him, but if it was to play in a band for fun there wouldn't be much difference in behaviour. He doesn't mention Victor at all, and John can only guess over how they are doing.

It's hard to interpret what this means. It reminds him of Shalom, an incredibly vibrant person with whom he ended up in a warm relationship, but that could be just wishful thinking on his part.

Sherlock could simply be drifting away from sharing intimacies with John.

Disheartening, the possibility. Feeding into the paranoia that this thing between them is about to end is one more motivation for him to focus on bonding with Sherlock over his art.

It comes so naturally to him, drawing Sherlock's face. He will probably need years to finally nail it, if such achievement is possible, but he's not in a hurry. It's not a job, it's just a way to pass the time.

It is Megan, actually, who notices the pattern. She asks him if the man in his drawings is his muse. He replies that not really, what else could he say. The man is not modeling for him.

'He doesn't have to do that, you know.' she arguments. 'The muse is simply your inspiration. Some people look for their pets for inspiration, or the view from the windows. You clearly are inspired by this person, whoever it is.'

'It's just that, I don't think I should.' he doesn't want to go into detail about the reasoning. He had asked for the cards she had offered weeks ago only after the previous class. He hadn't phoned any of them, but he is considering while pretending not to. He hasn't told anyone about them. 'It's a distraction, I feel like I can become...' he cuts off before saying "obsessed" out aloud. 'Too invested. I have other things to do.' 

He realises it's already more information than she needed, but Megan is a super discreet person anyway, and never comments on it. 'If you are already distracted by this person, making him your muse could actually help you.'

'I'm listening.' but still unsure on how it could possibly help him.

'A muse can help you funnel your distraction. Instead of, I don't know,' but she says in a way that John is aware that she very much knows but doesn't want to put him in the spotlight. 'Daydreaming about him at inconvenient times, you will funnel all this energy into making one drawing a day. You don't have to always go for his face. Does your muse inspire you in other things, other visual areas?'

He thinks about the flowers, an obvious mental route. About a field of sunflowers, about Sherlock's hunched form in a corner of a dark church, framed by the coloured glass windows. The softness of his hair, that makes John think of silk and cotton, the sharpness of his eyes, that reminds him of the ocean surrounding him as he panics. 

Sherlock's deep low voice, like a slow dripping honey into a pond. A beehive, buzzing incessantly like his stomach when he makes John perfectly happy.

'Even abstract feelings, if you don't know how to characterise them.' she continues. 'Just a splash of colours and shapes on paper.'

It makes sense. 'Thank you.'

'You're welcome. Now get on with the egg.'

The assignment for today is painting an egg with gouache. The egg sits majestic in his stand in the middle of the room. At first he had looked around for the white paint, finding none. He had asked around subtly, but nobody else had white paint on their kits. Finally, swallowing his embarrassment, he had lifted his hand for Megan, asking for it.

She had raised an eyebrow at him, glanced at the egg, then back at John, the mere hint of a smirk playing around her mouth. 'Why do you need it? I don't see any white there.'

Dumbfounded, it took longer than he can admit to understand this affirmation. In fact, for a moment he had thought she was making fun of his colour blindness, which he had disclosed when they studied the colours. Black is the absence of colour. White is the conjunction of all.

He takes a hard look at the egg. There's no white there. He can see the dull orange from the street lamp post hitting the side of the shell. Dark blue from the shadow under the egg. The light grey reflected from the ceiling, right at the top. 

There's nothing white, so he paints it exactly how it truly is, full of nuances that became the non-assuming egg. Even if he sees shades of colours differently, his own reality is still the one he knows.

At the end of the class, everyone presents their paintings, and claps hands at each other for the various degrees of success. 

As he packs his stuff, everyone leaves and he stays behind, and he still thinks about the muse and the nuances of the stupid egg. Megan seems to sense he wants to talk to her, also delaying her own packing.

'Do you-' he starts and stops, not exactly knowing what he's asking. 'Do you think my art suffers if I have an… underlying issue?'

Her expression is inescrutable. 'I have no idea, John. Is this about the therapy?'

The cards sit heavily inside his wallet. He hadn't touched them since asking for them. 'I feel like… I could be a better person. If I was… I wouldn't need… I wouldn't be in the position I am right now.'

She takes off her glasses. Her problem is short-sightedness, to see the students from the front of the room she needs them badly, but here, right upfront, she's mostly ok. Without the thick lenses, her brown eyes seem smaller than they should be. 'Sometimes we are not at our best, but it's not our fault.' she says very gently, but firmly. 'We can change that if we want to. Therapy first and foremost tries to make you acknowledge that an issue exists, and then we work on how this issue makes your life problematic. I don't know about your life, as you pointed out when we first met, but if you think something needs to change, someone looking from the outside can help you with that.'

He had received this particular advice so many times, and scoffed at it. Perhaps it's time to put his guards down and listen.


	17. Red spider lily

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Come say hi on my tumblr or twitter, although I'm more active on twitter. I talk about my projects and also post links to the songs for each chapter a bit before publishing it.
> 
> Song: Jolin Tsai - Fantasy

Five months after coming back from France, September shows its chilly side, and everything changes once again.

Saturdays had become John’s "do something fun" days. He's seeing a therapist tentatively - Ella. Not as a ‘real’ patient, as he had told her he still wanted to try her out first, and still have the possibility to back off if he thought it wasn't working for him. She had informed that even as an official patient, he still had the option to do that at any time, but if the distinction made him feel more in control, he was free to use it.

She had told him that the art classes had been a good start, because it meant he had realised for himself he barely made plans that didn't involve other people. She had suggested extending that to one day per week.

He chose Saturdays because this is usually the day that Sherlock spends with Victor. John wants to be distracted from it all.

Initially, he had pointed out that the main reason he took the sessions had been because of Sherlock, how he had made John rethink a lot of his life choices. To be fair, he loves talking about Sherlock. But Ella is not an easy woman to fool, and she kept changing the course of the discussion. One of her favourites is his childhood in foster care, which John absolutely hates talking about.

He's aware that she's fishing for some ripples that his upbringing may have caused in his adult life, but it doesn't make John more willing to expose the uncomfortable details of his childhood.

When he had told Sherlock about doing this, the man had been shocked. Literally, it seemed like his hard drive needed to reboot, as he spent long moments blinking at John, completely mute. Sherlock had actually had to sit down for it.

'I hope you get what you need from it,' Sherlock had eventually told him. 'I know it wasn't easy for you, taking this step.'

There was no malice behind the words, so John chose to interpret them as praise.

The morning has been cloudy and moody. Sherlock doesn’t say anything, but he takes a bag with him when he goes out right before lunchtime, so John is expecting to be home alone for the entirety of the weekend. He’d have gone out looking for something to do, but the promised rain finally hits in the afternoon, demotivating him of his usual plans and he decides to stay inside.

Mrs. Hudson has the habit of peeking in their living room randomly, but he knows she's not in today, so casual attire it is.

He reclines on the sofa only in his underwear and a vest, adopting a relaxed manspread, equipped with a beer and a huge bowl of prawn cocktail Walkers. He actually bought three packages and threw them in the bowl, with a ton of mayonnaise over everything. It is gross, a direct attack to his veins, and TV is broadcasting Taken today. He does love to snort at Liam Neeson running around on a criminal spree to find other criminals.

Around the middle of the movie, late afternoon, the living room door is thrown open out of the blue, making John’s heart almost jump out of his chest. It’s Sherlock, and he’s back for some inexplicable reason.

'Are you ok?' Sherlock asks, frowning, still standing by the door frame while John clutches his chest, gaping at him.

'Jesus Christ, what the hell are you doing here? I'm not decent!'

Sherlock rolls his eyes and drops the handbag by his feet, turning to hang his coat and kick off his shoes. John notices his face is very strange. Something has happened, and John knows it. 'Sherlock?'

He just shakes his head, picks up his bag from the floor and moves in the direction of his bedroom.

'Wait, Sherlock! What's going on?'

'This is not a very good day, John,' Sherlock’s voice is all _wrong_. 

'I thought we were here for that. Me and you.' he pleads, hating that Sherlock hadn't looked at him yet.

So when he finally does, John can't help but gasp. He's not crying, but he looks like he's holding it in, and it will happen eventually.

'What happened to you?' he asks softly, brow furrowed with worry.

Sherlock's mouth works a lot, and he sort of hugs himself. 'We broke up. Permanently this time.'

The bastard. 'What did he even say? I thought… I thought you two were ok, though?'

'What? Oh no, I was the one who broke up with him.'

Now, that's a different story. 'But what-' John cuts himself off, remembers a technique Ella uses when he vents about something. 'Do you want to talk about it or should we just get sloshed on wine?' The alcohol part certainly wasn't his therapist idea, but it's _his_ friendship, he can add a personal touch. 'You can join the Home With Netflix On Saturday Night Club.'

Sherlock does snort a wet laugh. 'How many members are there? Just one glass would be fine. And… you can ask whatever you want.' he looks up from under moist eyelashes, a sad but so beautiful sight. 'It's you, after all. Only you.'

John’s traitorous heart hammers wildly against his ribs at that, but he leaves it be. 'We just increased to two. It's very welcoming, by the way.'

There's an opened bottle of white wine in the fridge, and he fills a glass for both of them, as his beer is already done. 

They sit on their armchairs. Liam Neeson is currently torturing some guy on the screen, and Sherlock is making a disturbed face at the sound, so John turns off the TV

'So...' John has been granted permission to ask, but he doesn't even know where to start. In his large experience, breakups are hardly the product of one thing happening, but rather a causal chain. So it's easier to rephrase it in another way. 'What exactly triggered you to do this?'

Sherlock sips delicately on his wine, and one tear comes out from the corner of his eye, running through his cheek. He quickly smudges his hand on his chin to clean the drop. 'It's hard to blame the one exact thing. His plan for today, for example, was to ask me to move in with him.'

John chokes on his wine. What? 'I don't- Wh- What did you even?' he is incapable of completing a single sentence right now, babbling like an idiot. Sherlock moving out is not something that occurred to him even remotely. What would he even _do_?

'Well,' Sherlock starts, raising his glass at eye-level and mixing the contents slightly in circles. 'I told him I had a lease to begin with, I couldn't just move out.'

Which is a lie, because John knows very well that their contract said they could leave anytime after the first year, given the month in advance. 

'And he didn't believe you?'

'No, not that. He said we could wait for it, but that he really thought we should take this step. And I asked why that is so. That's when Pandora’s box opened.'

John nods, not wanting to interrupt him, curiosity taking the lead here.

'He told me that staying apart clearly doesn't work for us. I told him I didn't understand, because up to this point none of our problems had come from staying apart. Well, it _turns out_ ,' Sherlock’s sad, defeated tone changes to emphatically indignant, and he perks up in his seat, 'he proposed a break in the first place because he knew he was going to meet this guy who was interested in him back in Freiburg, where he took his Masters. He went there after visiting his family in Kolkata. That was his _intention_. To experiment with someone else so he could _check_ if other possibilities were more enticing than me back then, when we were fighting all the time. All those weeks that I thought everything had been my fault? He was hooking up with someone else.'

'Wow. I just, wow. This fucktard is a moron, isn't it?' John has been pining over what Victor has (had) for months, and he couldn't even keep it in his pants.

Sherlock snorts. 'I don't even consider… I mean, it wasn't exactly cheating, I know that. And the issues he raised with me before were all valid, I just didn't know how to solve it. But, he could have been honest with me, you know? That's what made me the angriest.'

'It sounds like cheating to me.'

'I agreed to the break.'

'Did you?'

Sherlock just shrugs, having more, wine, like the whole discussion is unimportant. 'Remember what you told me? Back in the… in Auch?'

John narrows his eyes. 'I told you many things.' And it wasn't even enough. 'What exactly?'

'That I shouldn't let people walk over me.'

'Yes,' John feels his traitorous mouth wanting to form a smile, but he resists, not wanting to be insensible. 'That's why you broke up with him, because of what I said?'

'I think I was going to anyway. But no, what you said… I remembered it, during the discussion. Which didn't go as it usually did.'

He tilts his head, curiosity picked. 'What did you do?'

'I may have… yelled at him. A little.'

John's amused smile finally spills over, and Sherlock covers his still moist eyes with a hand to chuckle through his nose, but he's looking way better now than when he was trying a tactical retreat to his bedroom, probably to lick at his wounds.

'Wow, Sherlock… I… I'm proud of you.'

'Well. There you go,’ Sherlock tries to shrug it off as if it were no big deal. ‘My sob story.'

'You-' John starts and pauses, wanting to phrase this correctly. 'It's entirely his loss, you know. He threw it away because he's a stupid arse, and he had no right of treating you like he did.' He wants to add that Sherlock deserves the world, but decides to filter it out of his little speech. 

Sherlock takes the hand out of his face to arch an eyebrow at him. 'You would say that to all of your friends.'

'I wouldn't say that even to myself,' and he means it. 

Sherlock stares at him for a long time, and as unsettling as it is, John makes the effort to stare right back. 'Thank you.' he replies finally, and so, so softly. John has to swallow a lump, raising his glass in cheering.

-*-

Ella had told him, multiple times, how common it is for people with his childhood history to have issues with commitment, and how he needs to break the thought process that leads to this behaviour.

He had recounted the accidental meeting with Jeanette. Per Ella's suggestion (and nobody had mentioned beforehand that therapy includes doing homework), he wrote letters to everyone else he felt he owed an explanation. He never sent any of them, and she said he could destroy the letters afterwards. He apologises to Sarah for not taking her seriously, to Elyse for not showing interest in her life, to Shalom for not liking her much but staying with her for shallow reasons, to Jeanette for always making her the second option, to Bill for… everything basically. It took ages to finish his letter to Bill. In Mary's letter he just doodled a penis. Ella made the whole session about it as punishment.

Sherlock was supposed to have a letter too. John had drawn bees buzzing around a sunflower instead.

John understands, from an intellectual perspective, that she's trying to make him understand that being a shitty boyfriend hadn't been all his fault, and he can change patterns of action by finding the roots of his mindset. But at the same time, some attitudes cannot be attributed to trauma or whatever, and _should_ be avoided.

John doesn't want to be _that guy_. The one that pretends to listen to the other, to be the friend's shoulder to cry on, only to proposition right after. 

He definitely doesn't want to be a rebound.

So later that day, when it's completely dark and silent, he hides from no one under his duvet to use his phone, browsing through Reddit and Quora how long one should wait before making a move after your person of interest breaks up.

The one certainty he has is that he's not giving up without a fight.


	18. Daffodil

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Come say hi on my tumblr or twitter, although I'm more active on twitter. I talk about my projects and also post links to the songs for each chapter a bit before publishing it.
> 
> Song: T-ara - Like the first time
> 
> We're almost there...

The end of October is not very promising for flower sale. Halloween is a mildly popular day in the UK, and the decoration theme for that leans on the dry-leaves aesthetic. Although for years now, Sherlock has been trying to put dark flowers on the radar, without much success.

This year, he has convinced Mrs Hudson to try something different with the shop. After weeks of talking her into the idea, she has finally agreed to transform the place into a gothic garden for the month in the hopes that it attracts a different clientele than usual.

Sherlock’s fascination with death makes it easier to experiment with more morbid themes. He also largely appreciates the dark aesthetic. But this year, without doubt, being raw from his breakup plays a key role in him embracing the opportunity to paint it black.

Witchcraft has a lot to offer in terms of flowers, as they are used for spells and other rituals. Sherlock spreads dandelions and English chamomile near the register counter. Right at the door sits a vase with a small pussy willow, waiting for someone's generous garden so the flower can grow to its fullest. Blackberry bushes are a marvel mixed within other shrubs in the aisles.

Of course, black flowers are on the menu, and they need to be at the window, to express the shop's seasonal intention and business plan.

They are not an easy bunch to find, the black bulb types, but he and Mrs Hudson managed. Black tulips are iconic, calla lilies are intriguing, and hyacinths bring a sombre mood to the place. Dahlias give an air of victorian upper-class; gladiolus could be the velvety fabric of a London concubine dress, bloodied after being murdered, and black irises could represent a dark magic ritual.

His special touch had been pure white roses splattered with artful red paint strategically placed between the sprawling lilac butterfly bush and purple delphiniums. Sherlock has also scattered red paint across the background wall so that it looks like a spray of blood.

The carved pumpkin Mrs Hudson placed at the entrance is cheeky enough to reduce the eerie atmosphere he had been aiming for.

'I admit I was a bit sceptical of your idea,' she says as they close for the day. The last client is leaving with a vase full of one of Mrs Hudson's favourites: the black sweet williams. 'But we are having better profit than the same period of the last three years. Nothing compared to Valentine's of course, but still. This morning I received a call asking for the budget of a kid's birthday party with a Halloween theme.'

Sherlock fishes a handful of the homemade ginger biscuits from the bowl she put next to the cashier, tossing them into his mouth. 'We should think of more events. Perhaps making up something out of the usual commercial dates. People tend to be non-imaginative at best, without a little push from the market they wouldn't know how to buy flowers.'

'Oh, how about Remembrance day?'

'I wouldth apprethiate haffing a change from poppies for onthe—' 

'Sherlock Holmes!’ Mrs Hudson puts her hands on her waist. ‘Would you mind swallowing before speaking?'

'Forry.' he swallows at her glare. 'Sorry. One flower theme is so dull, and why is it always _red_?. Everyone would benefit from variety.' he taps his fingers on the counter, ideas running through his head. 'I think you should come up with something classic. Remembrance Day is mostly for traditional people anyway.'

She pinches her own chin, contemplative, and makes a Eureka face. 'Oh! We could do a mural on the window! Like the brick walls with veteran names. A little plaque with a name with the arrangement falling on top of it.'

'Sounds good. We will need a list for the distributors. I can check that for you if you want.'

She flaps her hand dismissively. 'Leave that for tomorrow morning. I'm turning off the computer already anyway. You don't need to bring work home; I told you that multiple times.'

'It's not a burden. I like to do research.'

'I know you do, but it's good to have some time off,' she takes off the uniform apron, and he follows her suit. 'And lately you and John seem to be having a lot of fun in the evenings, if I’ve been hearing right,' she says with a twinkle in her eye that he chooses not to dwell on.

She is right, of course. Except for John's Tuesday art classes and the occasional pub night with Mike and Molly, both of them mostly stay at home after work, watching telly, since there's no one else from each side to demand their presence and attention. Just the other day, John had come from work with a few cardboard boxes stacked under his arm.

Board games are not what Sherlock would have thought to be good entertainment, but he admits he bit his tongue on that one.

Cluedo ended up not working for them, as they had lengthy disagreements about the rules. Monopoly is so tedious Sherlock wanted to die, even if John found it incredibly amusing to be able to buy real estate. The wonders of the human mind.

Sherlock, being extremely flexible and nurturing the ability since he was a kid, beat John senseless on Twister. John had a bad back for days, and refused to touch it again. 

The noise they made on that one had brought Mrs. Hudson upstairs to check on them. 

She had suggested all three played cards with some pocket change for fun, only for her to eat them up and take all their money. 

Battleship quickly became their favourite, as both have a liking for strategy games. Sherlock likes trying to find John’s thought patterns. John likes the general military theme behind it. 

They've always hung around so much with each other, but now they basically spend all their time together, and that's taking into account John's new "me time" additions to his routine. Especially on Saturdays, John disappears for hours to do whatever comes to his mind. Sometimes, he just takes a walk to the park. If there is a movie in theatres he wants to see, he will go by himself. Last week, he went to the Wilderness Festival in Oxford.

For the next Saturday, he had invited Sherlock to go on a scavenger hunt. 

Sherlock had assumed it's because the hunt is designed for teams. The registered teams receive the tips on their phones, and they have two hours to walk around London trying to find whatever item.

For months he's been going out on his own, but this time John wanted Sherlock along.

Sherlock tries not to overthink this. What is there to think anyway.

'Well, yes,' Sherlock doesn't add much, knowing Mrs Hudson is quick to assume things. 'When you are not stealing from us.'

Mrs Hudson makes a fake offended face, hand on the chest and everything. 'Now, I never _stole_. If you place a bet, the money goes on the table and then into the winner’s pocket. Those are the rules, dear.'

'Of course.' he rolls his eyes. 'If you want to come back with me, John is passing by soon so we can all walk home.'

'Thanks dear, I'm driving. Don't you boys want a lift?'

'No, we are fine walking,' Sherlock wants to avoid being in a vehicle that has Hudders behind the wheels. How she manages to drive through the London traffic like a bulldozer on ecstasy is beyond his understanding. 'Thank you.'

'So, _John_ is picking you up?' She smiles at him from the pavement while he rolls down the security shutters.

He frowns. 'The shop is on his way home.' he says, not giving in to her teasing.

'Sure it is,' she looks around, twirling the car keys around her pointing finger. 'It's been quite a while since he dated anyone, isn't it?'

He doesn't meet her gaze. 'Yes.'

'Curious. I don't remember him being single for so long. Wasn't Gina the last one?'

He subtly grits his teeth. 'Jeanette.'

'Ah yes, right. From the Christmas party. Wow, it's really been almost a year then?'

'I suppose.'

'Interesting.'

'What's your point?'

'Me?’ Mrs Hudson chuckles in an effort to appear innocent, ‘Nothing. Just making small talk while you wait. Oh, isn't that him coming over there? Hello John, nice to see you. You sure you don't want a lift? Ok then, see you back home.'

John frowns in confusion but keeps the smile on his face, looking quite cute for all the world. Sherlock has to look up to the dark sky for a moment. John, oblivious to his inner agitation, lifts the bags he's carrying, visibly pleased with himself.

'Brought us Lebanese takeaway. Not even you will complain.'

-*-

'That's absolutely ridiculous, John!'

'Just because your stupidly long legs are getting in the way doesn't mean it's ridiculous. You have to jump at least a second before and _higher_!'

One of the salespeople at the shoe shop they chose as the background watches them with a funny face through the shop window. Sherlock huffs. 'Right, one last time. I won't do this again.'

John programmes his camera to shoot automatically and sets the phone on top of the street hydrant, running to Sherlock's side immediately after. 'Ok, five seconds. Three, two, one...'

They jump in the air and the telltale click sound from the camera goes off. Sherlock has made sure his fists are clenched and calves squeezed enough so that only his knees are visible in the picture.

'Yes! Finally! Ok, let's go to the next hint.'

The scavenger hunt happens every Saturday afternoon. The teams receive hints on their phones, and over a duration of two to three hours, they have to complete thirty assorted challenges. This one required them to take a picture jumping in the air in this particular position.

The hunt accepts teams with up to six people, as the website Sherlock had found instructed. He had expected to see other faces joining them, but John's plans included just the two of them.

He had missed the easy dynamic between them, which had gone stale after returning from France. They are slowly getting back on track, and for that Sherlock is grateful.

The challenges are actually pretty silly. They had crossed a team composed of a hen party, all using matching bandanas saying "The Bride Team" and seemingly drunk already, during the last challenge. Sherlock guesses this is the typical group of people you'd find at an event like this, but he admits that quarreling with John for fun comes naturally, and he's having a good time.

All signs indicate that his partner in crime feels the same.

'Please tell me the next one is a hidden item,' he pleads as they walk away from the background shop.

John beams, tilting the phone screen in his direction so he can also take a look at the instructions. 'It is; look at this picture, we have to find this clock,' his face crunches up. 'That's all we have? How the hell are we going to find something so specific with no further direction?'

Sherlock fights against the smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. 'Oh, I wouldn't say that.'

'All right then, genius.' John says in a slightly teasing tone, licking his lips. Something flutters madly in Sherlock's belly. 'Work your magic.'

-*-

While their relationship has sincerity built deep in its foundations, Sherlock is aware John doesn't tell him everything, and the same can be said for him. Anything else would probably not be healthy anyway.

Sherlock didn't tell John everything about his breakup. None of it was his concern.

Victor had told him they could build love together, when he was adamant they should be back together. He had said love is not something you can easily find turning a corner next door. 

Sherlock had wanted to believe him so badly. Loneliness is not something he bodes well with, but he had learned to accept. 

Uncertainty is something that scares him, as he usually is not up to invest in something with no expectation of return.

John represents so much uncertainty. 

Yes, he had freaked out when John kissed him, because what was going to come after that? John doesn't have the best track record and if on top of them not working out he lost their friendship too, he doesn't know what would be left for him.

The prospect of ending up resenting John had sealed the deal for him.

So he went back to the alleged sense of security and promise of change. Victor had basically stopped nagging him about things he can't control being, had offered all sorts of comforts. One night he even let the dynamic of their usual sex routine change a bit, per Sherlock's suggestion, although he had failed to mention doing it again.

Truth is, the changes were also followed by the impression that, week after week, Sherlock's feelings were fading away. 

It had been an unknown experience for him, having this happen during a relationship. But once he caught himself one too many times asking if he wanted to stay like this, it became a rabbit hole.

At the back of his mind he knew he made the right choice about John. 

But also, John was changing. John was showing he _wanted_ , was taking steps toward it. And Sherlock, thrown in this indecision spiral for over a year, started thinking _what if_.

Victor's approach of asking him to move in was a wake-up call. He is not so out of this relationship game to know that's not how things should go. At first he had thought this was a jealous streak or something of the kind. They had never played this game, Sherlock is mostly not interested in competition and Victor always seemed very sure of himself.

Some of John's partners had been jealous of Sherlock, although he claims innocence on that front. Nothing that he demanded of John wasn't reciprocal. Shalom and Jeanette couldn't stand the sight of him, but they hid it well. Sarah had been friendly enough, and he and Elyse had a mutual liking for each other.

Bill Murray had been a nice guy, but he was insanely jealous of Sherlock.

'Is this because of John?' he had asked Victor. Victor knew they had spent the weekend in France together, of course, but Sherlock hadn't told him about the fake relationship part. Perhaps he had picked up something that had happened there. He would reassure Victor, if necessary, that nothing was going on between him and John. 'You don't want me living with him?'

Victor had frowned in confusion. 'John? The people collector?' he had huffed in derision. 'Never thought I needed to worry about _that guy_ out of anyone.'

'What does this even mean?' 

'Sherlock, you don't need to be angry on his behalf.' Sherlock doesn't know if Victor had been intentionally condescending at the time, but it certainly had felt like it, especially because he was never the vicious type of personality, so it had stood out. 'I know he is your friend, but he has nothing to offer to anyone, especially with that "sweet" personality of his. It's not cute. Why are we even discussing him? He's not important, nor will be relevant for the step we need to take after he finds another flatmate.'

'Stop insulting him and we can talk properly.' he had snarled, revelling in the surprised look Victor had given him. 'Why is this a step _we need_ to take, I don't understand where this is coming from?'

And from there it all went downhill, of course.

He had grieved the relationship while still in it, after realising everything he felt for Victor was going backwards. It hadn't been a bad relationship. He had liked Victor, he had enjoyed most of their time together. The ultimate fight and the resurface of the sordid details of the true nature of their break had cemented the seed in his mind that they were over, even leaving aside whatever they had done before getting back together.

But after ending it he had landed once again in a position where he knows where he would want to go but can't decide if he should.

-*-

Lunchtime on Mondays is officially not a free time for John, Sherlock learns. There are only so many sessions one could attend and still claim they are not in therapy. He knows John dodged around for the first weeks, making up some excuse every now and then not going. But regularity hit at last, even if he tries to pretend he isn’t doing therapy.

Of course, it's not a miracle. But John is clearly making an effort to dig deep into himself and his issues, so Sherlock applauds him on that.

But sometimes, he still comes home unnerved from whatever Ella made him talk about. 

Like today. Sherlock can see it in the tight jaw and defeated shoulders that something is bothering him. He closes his laptop and reorganises the desk, meaning he just pushes everything aside in a pile.

When John emerges from the bathroom, hair still a bit wet, Battleship is already set up on the desk. Sherlock considers it a victory that he already looks less tense when he notices it.

They arrange the boats in position. One thing Sherlock knows, and that John hadn't noticed yet, is that John always places the submarine at the bottom part of the board under the other fleets, probably due to an unconscious association to under-the-sea positioning. Sherlock makes a point of never starting there, to save the surprise factor.

They flip a coin and John snatches the first move. 'B5.' 

Sherlock's destroyer is at A5, but he tries to not convey any emotion on his face, in case John deduces his strategy from that. 'Water. J1.'

'Damn. E10.'

'Oopsie. Bomb,' and there it goes, the rear end of his carrier. 'J2. Bad day today?'

'Water,' he misses whatever John had at the J row. 'The day went fine, I suppose. Had a disagreement with Ella. E11.'

'Bomb. A disagreement enough to tamper your mood? You were fine this morning. I1.'

'Ah, got that one, didn't you? Bomb. Anyway, it's just… There’s something I told her I want to do, and she's not sure I should. She thinks I'm being precipitous.'

John doesn't make a move to continue bombing Sherlock's carrier, which makes him look up. John has leaned back on the chair with his arms crossed, looking away at the window. Sherlock had been ready to continue what he suspected to be John's patrol boat, so he has to put his hands back on his lap.

Curiosity washes over him, mingled with apprehension. Bringing up an issue to your therapist must mean that whatever decision taken will be relevant for your life in general. 

If John is raising the question, and upset after not finding approval, it's definitely something that would significantly alter his status quo. Perhaps, he thinks back to Mrs. Hudson remarking how long it has been since John hasn't dated anyone, John wants to resume some old habits, now that he supposedly has healthier parameters...

What is it that is worrying John? Will Sherlock be able to cope with it? Is it even his business?

'Is this something important to you?' he asks, not knowing how to handle this. His guess is that if John wants to tell him what’s bothering him, he will. On the contrary, he won't pressure for more details.

John looks back at him, expression unreadable. He regards Sherlock intensely, making Sherlock want to squirm in his seat, but he holds John’s gaze nevertheless. Since John started drawing people, he has developed a habit of scrutinizing every detail of Sherlock's face. While Sherlock himself is not much of a fan of his pointed chin and small eyes, he admits that drawing his face must be more interesting than a boring, flat one. Like a living caricature.

John is not very good at drawing faces, although Sherlock would rather keep mum on that than dampen his enthusiasm. It's just a hobby anyway.

Both of them prefer when John draws bones.

It's a long pause. With anyone else, Sherlock would be uncomfortable, but with John he doesn't mind as much. He lets him do it, because he knows it's not malicious.

'Yes.' he answers at last, quietly. 'It's very important to me.'

Sherlock nods. He guessed correctly. He has no idea what John is planning, but Sherlock will support him regardless, as he's been doing for all the time they know each other. 'Then you should tell her that.'

John smiles softly, his face reminding Sherlock of warm tea in winter. 'You are right.' he looks down at the board of his game with hooded eyes, still smiling. 'I will tell her.'


	19. Carnation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Come say hi on my tumblr or twitter, although I'm more active on twitter. I talk about my projects and also post links to the songs for each chapter a bit before publishing it.
> 
> Song: Hong Jin Young - Love tonight
> 
> Full playlist here.

'Come on, it will be fun, I promise!' Janine’s voice teases Sherlock over the phone, trying to persuade him, 'I even checked, the general attendance tends more to late-thirties and forties, so you don't have to worry about sloshed college students in packs crowding the place.'

'That's actually reassuring,' he generally prefers texting, but Janine had called, immediately springing unto him the proposition of a dance night at a Soho salsa bar. 

He's interested.

'You can bring someone with you if you'd like, you know,' Sherlock can hear her smirk over the phone. She says "someone" instead of John, even if the last time they met she had been informed they were together, albeit falsely. They had texted every now and then during the over seven months since Auch, but never brought up meeting again until now.

He's almost relieved it didn't happen sooner, otherwise he would need to explain the difference between boyfriends. But intuition tells him she has noticed something fishy going on.

'Ok, ok, I'll be there. Can I end the call now?'

She laughs brightly on the other side. 'All right, grumpy man. Will text you the details. See ya!'

He shakes his head in amused disapproval, throwing his phone at the coffee table and sprawling back on the sofa. She actually had been texting him, but he mostly ignored the phone the whole afternoon, until she called. 

John is sitting on his armchair, working on something in his sketchbook that Sherlock can’t make out. When asked, he had simply answered that it was a personal project, so Sherlock had laid off his curiosity to vegetate on the sofa and let the man work. John sniffs when Sherlock hangs up. 'Got plans for tonight?' 

The tone is hard to decipher, as he senses John is trying to hide whatever is going on through his mind. 'With Janine. At a dance bar in Soho.'

The answer is a noncommittal noise. Sherlock considers a bit before asking, 'Do you want to go with me?'

John looks up from the notebook, clearly surprised. 'You- You'd want me to go with you?'

Sherlock shrugs, trying not to give in too much. 'Why wouldn't I? Also, they have salsa classes during the night if you are interested in learning.' he swallows. 'I like going out with you, that's all.'

John beams, a soft, brilliant grin, and Sherlock feels like someone has just lit a candle in his heart. 'I would like to go, yeah.'

So a few hours later they take the Tube to Soho. Sherlock had chosen his purple shirt and charcoal trousers, since they fit him like a glove and don’t get in the way of dancing, paired with leather shoes that he reserves for occasions such as this. He had been confident in his choice, but he feels very self-conscious now that John keeps stealing glances at him when he thinks Sherlock won't notice. He checks his reflection on the Tube's car glass door. Does he look extravagant?

'Look at you! Thought I would never drag you out of your cave!' Janine immediately hugs him as they find her already at a table. 'Oh, hi John,' she greets pleasantly, but doesn't offer more than a hand wave, reciprocated by him.

'Nice meeting you again,' he smiles with closed lips, then turns to Sherlock. 'Do you want a cocktail? I can go get you some.' 

They drink and banter for a little while. Apparently, Janine's boss had been on the news after getting arrested for serial blackmail, invasion of privacy and sexual harassment, and she's very keen to gossip about that. 

Soon, the dance floor opens for salsa. The beginning is always shy, but after a few people start, it's easier for others to join. Sherlock notices the first couples are actually the instructors of the house, who are enticing the people from the tables nearby to get up.

He has to put his mouth very close to John's ear for him to hear. 'Do you want to go there?'

John looks to the sides first, and nods. All three get up. Sherlock quickly scams the room, examining the men nearby to find potential candidates to be Janine's partner. He catches her attention by touching her elbows and pointing at one with his chin. She grins and gives a half-hug to his shoulder before making a move for the target.

'So, you are basically her wingman?' John asks, still looking to the sides.

He shrugs. 'I don't mind.'

Some instructors gathered a small group right at the middle and are showing some basic moves. Couples close to them subtly copy the steps. 

John takes one look at the scene and turns his back to it, body facing Sherlock but glancing around constantly as if just waiting for someone to comment on his moves. He doesn't look very comfortable. Sherlock shoulders and hips start to move on their own accord. John's eyes snap back to him at once.

'I can show you some moves,' Sherlock leans closer so he doesn't have to yell. John's head is tipped back to be able to maintain eye contact. 'I can teach how to guide if you'd prefer.'

'No you can- I wouldn't know how to guide anyway.'

'Here,' he offers his hands for John to take. 'Now move your left foot behind, yes like a step. I'll move my right forward with it, you see it? Now reverse, your right forward, and I go back like this.'

John’s movements are very stiff, but at least he's following Sherlock's directions. He looks like a robot doing it, though. 'You can move your hips, you know?' he says with an amused smile and playful tone, trying to loosen John up. 'Sway them from side to side like this.'

He moves his own hips to demonstrate. John looks fixedly at the spot, but his own attempt to imitate is half-hearted at best.

Sherlock puts his hands over John's hips, trying to make them move in tandem with his own, but it seems to make matters worse. John falters in his step, gripping Sherlock's elbows tight enough he knows the area will have bruises later. His hips remain stubbornly immobile.

Time for a different approach, Sherlock decides as the song also changes. He gets John into a locked embrace, pulling his arms around his back, and making his own encircle John's neck. 

He tries guiding John's moves like this, but his feet are heavy, dragging on the floor, making Sherlock's footwork almost an impossible mission. 

John is not looking at him. Rather, he keeps his face to the side, eyes darting from the couples around them to the ceiling, back and forth. Sherlock finally stops, releasing him entirely. With eye contact back, he can see that John looks terribly embarrassed. 

'You don't want to do this at all, do you,' he doesn't bother phrasing it as a question.

John grimaces. 'Sorry, I'll try again, come show me-'

'No, John,' John is getting the wrong idea from his reaction. 'You shouldn't force yourself to do things you don't like.'

'But- It's just that you seem enthusiastic about it,' John says miserably. 'I don't want you to be alone here.'

Sherlock bites the inside of his cheek. Yes, he _is_ a bit disappointed, but the last thing he wants is for John to be tormented about it. 'It's not a problem, really. You don't have to go through something that makes you self-conscious just to appease me. And Janine would certainly keep me company if you go home.'

'I don't want to go home.' John looks a bit alarmed now. 'I just don't-' he gesticulates vaguely to the dancefloor. 

'Right,' he searches the floor for Janine, spotting her a few metres on his right. Luckily for him and not so much for her, the conversation with the guy she's dancing with doesn't look very stimulating. 'You don't have to. But I'll probably be here for a while,' he warns. He doesn't want John to feel out of place, but at the same time he doesn't want to sacrifice this opportunity.

'I can be at the table. I'm fine watching you,' John reassures him, and adds after seeing Sherlock's skeptical look. 'Seriously. I'd rather watch you dancing than stumble over myself.'

Sherlock grips the sides of John's face to plant a kiss on his forehead. 'Make sure nobody laces my drink.'

John smiles and goes back to the table, looking relieved. As if on cue, Janine looks over her partner's shoulder with begging eyes. He walks over to pretend to steal her away.

-*-

As December shows its face, London tries to compensate for the dull grey that hangs over the city with overwhelmingly colourful Christmas decorations. The gardens and parks lose vibrance and are not as busy, as the plants that survive winter get all covered up with canvas, the rest becoming dark and dry straw until April.

Not a good time for flowers, but thanks to the wonders of modern agriculture and powered green houses, the flower shop is able to survive through this time of the year.

The Remembrance day event had been successful in terms of not letting the month's profit die away, but the end of the year is always a toll on them, as they have to increase the prices for the season.

Christmas is not traditionally a flower-intensive festival since it's mostly celebrated at home, but companies do tend to have parties for employees before that, so they advertise sophisticated arrangements for this type of reunion. Sherlock finds this incredibly boring, but it keeps them busy enough, so he bites his tongue.

For hours now, Mrs. Hudson has been working on something he doesn't know about. A special delivery she had said, where her expertise was specifically solicited. 

He had shrugged and went to work on other things. The blackberries bushes from October are thriving, and the bakery around the corner has accepted an offer to buy the fruits for a discount price. Sherlock has been hoping for a blackberry tartelette for ages.

At the end of the day, he is closing everything, as Mrs Hudson has locked herself away in her office and hasn't said anything about changing routines.

He takes off the apron, and knocks on her door, waiting for her 'Come in!' before entering.

She is positively glowing, hands over a closed cardboard box on her desk. 'Come on, Sherlock, this is a very important delivery for you.'

He subtly checks on his watch. 'A delivery off-hours?' he can't even think of going out there at rush hour and back to the shop to process the payment.

She beams at him. 'No dear, it's a delivery _for you_.'

He blinks. Surely, as he gets closer, at the side of the box there's a tag attached saying _To Sherlock_. He can't fathom what this is for. He suddenly remembers Victor asking for flowers just to see Sherlock, back when he first was interested in him. Surely Mrs. Hudson would have better tact than that?

Dreading whatever is coming, he opens the box. And it's… not what he expected.

It's a skull. A damn real human skull. He is pretty sure that even realistic fake skulls don't have traces of dental work, and what seems to be an adenoid correction.

The most impressive part, as if a real skull is not impressive enough, is that the skull is basically a flower arrangement support.

He instantly recognises Mrs. Hudson's fingerprint classic style. The skull sits right in the middle of a bed of blue forget-me-nots and salvias, interspersed with green honey bracelets. The mouth of the skull is slightly open to permit a bite on a single yellow gerbera daisy. Both eye holes have a sprout of dark sweet williams coming out of them. And at the top of the head sits a flower crown.

The main motif is shades of red, as carnations in pink and crimson adornate the crown, sprinkled with pink peppercorns still in the delicate branches.

He is completely dumbfounded. Mrs. Hudson nudges him with an envelope.

There's a card inside it. It's plain white, no store ready messages printed. Only the handwritten text in a very familiar calligraphy. His throat is constricted by something unidentifiable as he reads the contents.

'He asked me to do the arrangement.' Mrs. Hudson's gentle voice interrupts his typhoon of thoughts. 'As he's not very good with it, and he can't parse the palettes. But the rough design was all his. He asked specifically for red combinations. It's one of my best works, don't you think?'

He shakes his head, opening and closing his mouth like a dying fish. 'Can I-?' he points to the door over his shoulder with his thumb.

'Please, go! I will finish the rest over here.'

He nods, picking up the box with ultimate care and leaving her behind.

The walk home is a full death experience, as he almost trips over himself multiple times, clutching tightly the box against his chest, letter weighing heavily in the inner pocket of his coat. He drops his keychain three times before being able to open the front door of 221.

Somehow he manages to get through the staircase. As he crosses the doorframe to the living room he sees John trying to sneak up to his bedroom upstairs.

'John Watson, don't you dare run away!' he blurts out. John freezes and turns around slowly, looking afraid of all things for him to be.

'I got your gift,' he says needlessly like a moron, still holding tight the box. 'Where did you get the skull?'

John grips the back of his own neck, still not looking Sherlock in the eye. 'From work. Ah… Molly helped me. Mike pretends he doesn't know about it. There's no family to reclaim him, it, anyway.'

Sherlock nods, kneeling on the floor in front of John to carefully remove the full arrangement from the box. He takes it to the mantelpiece, throwing the clutter aside to place the skull right in the middle.

John has stepped a bit into the living room, still maintaining distance, looking insecure. 'Do you like it?'

Sherlock snorts, realising with horror that his voice is choked up, and his eyes are humid. 'It's beautiful,' he swallows and fishes the contents of his pockets. 'Got your letter too.'

John is finally staring at him with wide eyes. 'Yeah.'

'I didn't think you'd ever make the list,' he says unfolding the paper. 'Things you want and things you don't want.'

John nods, chin down on his chest but looking up through his eyelashes. 'I thought… You might want to know.' he clears his throat and takes a deep breath, assuming a parade rest and spreading his arms. 'That's me. That's what I have to offer. If you are amenable to that. I would- Like. I _want_ to be with you. In every sense. I made so many changes in my life recently, but you are the one fixed point in it, and I want nothing more than to be able to cherish you.'

How do people do this? How can anyone hear these kinds of words and still be able to breathe, with their heart hammering against their ribs, wanting to jump out of the chest and make company to a severed skull in a flower crown on the mantelpiece?

It's like his heart is screaming that no! Emotions don't come from brain synapses. It's me! It's me all along and I can prove it to you, by overworking to the point of madness.

Not that long ago, he would have thought it to be madness, what he's choosing to do, but he simply puts the letter back in his inner pocket, as if to gate-keep his heart in place (I will still need you, please stay there), strides over the room to hold John Watson's neck, tilting it back so he can kiss him properly.

-*-

Molly sends around a dozen texts asking if the plan worked, until John finally removes the hand he has been using to thread his fingers through Sherlock’s curls to pick up his phone at the bedside table and answer her.

Together at some point they optimise John’s original design for the skull so it retains high quality when digitalised. Sherlock is the sole responsible for colouring it, of course, with John glued to his back, arms locked around Sherlock’s shoulders. He uploads it to his website as his new business logo. 

Mike is very complimentary of the piece, and puts the printed folders at his desk for his clients to see. Mrs. Hudson wears a flower crown every day for a week, and when Sherlock asks her why she just pats him on the arm with a sunny smile, incongruent with the cold of December, but, somehow, apt.

Eventually, as the months go by, Ted calls John to inform him the adoption of three british brothers in the age range of six to eleven was officialised, now their godchildren. They go together to the celebration party in London, snickering with inappropriate jokes behind juice paper cups.

They leave last, with the promise of visiting the family in Lyon.

Ella's initial reluctance towards John taking this step gradually abates as he seems more willing to pursue therapy guidance, and shows improvement in getting constructive criticism. Added to that, seeing her patient finally happy puts her at peace.

They finally open the bottle of French wine, and they appreciate it with a full meal prepared by Sherlock. John prints pictures he took from Auch, which were rotting in his phone, to make an album. The selfie he took of both of them in the sunflower field gets a proper frame and everything.

Carnations are long lasting flowers, but they do eventually dry off, and not in a flattering way. 

Flowers in general are quite ephemeral, even the ones properly planted on soil, with adequate access to sunlight, fresh water and minerals. The buds grow, wilt and fall off. Some go through the whole life cycle in a matter of hours.

The skull stays on the mantelpiece. He's their friend. Well, Sherlock says friend, John frowns at that, murmurs 'a bit not good,' and they move on. 

The flower crown and the rest of the arrangement all die, but they are replenished regularly. It started with carnations, daisies and sweet williams, but after them comes sunflowers, tulips, zinnias, yarrows. There is no shortage of possibilities, making their living room more interesting and colourful, and definitely no lack of dedication from both of them to keep the memento alive.

The boxes of board games are stacked in the living room.

Their bedroom, possessive pronoun recently updated, needs a closed door, for everyone's benefit. They don't want Mrs. Hudson to hear the most indecent sounds, usually accompanied by giggles, from both tenor and baritone voices.

In the kitchen there's always mess, as usual. A full sink that needs to be cleaned. Experiments with soil that shouldn't be in the same space as food.

And glued to the fridge's door with a magnet, there is a list.

**_things I don't want_ ** __

_* kids  
* travel on Eurostar  
* dance (unless we are both alone at 221B. Curtains closed)  
* marriage talk (not yet)_

_**things I want** _

_* travel with you  
* draw your face  
* see you dance  
* touch your hair  
* say I love you out aloud  
* think forever_

_-*-_

_the end_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, that was it! When I first thought of this fic, it was supposed to be an one-shot lol and then outline happened and I kept adding and adding stuff, character arcs and etc. The first 50k words were all drafted for NaNoWriMo from 2020, it was amazing I have to say! I like how it came out. 
> 
> I want to thank first my dearest beta S_IRIS, who had to deal with my extreme indecision and mess akjsdnakj She's amazing, go read her fics!!
> 
> Thank you very much to everyone who subscribed, bookmarked, left kudos, and the angels who commented!! You're all amazing too.
> 
> I have my next multi chapter outlined, no idea when I'll finish the draft and publish it tho. But I must warn you that this one is completely different from TBOCP. On twitter I'll vent about it a lot probably :) I'll try to put up one or two one-shots in the middle time ( _try_ ).
> 
> See ya!


End file.
